The moon had risen to Central Heaven.
The mourners had long since dispersed, and the mountain path lay silent. Only the pale white of burned paper ash slowly cooled in the night.
Far-off village lamps flickered sparsely, like a few heartfires in the Mortal Realm that had not yet fallen asleep. Yet here was the quietest corner between heaven and earth.
Meng Sheng stood alone before the graves.
The night wind gently lifted his robes before letting them fall again, like the faintest ripple stirring across water. His expression was level, without sorrow or grief, as though his emotions had already traveled a long road and, in the end, left behind only an unshowy clarity.
After a long while.
A tear fell from the corner of his eye.
Soundless, breathless.
It was not collapse, nor was it loss of control. Rather, it was like a cloud that had gathered for a long time finally letting fall a little rain.
The night wind came from deep within the pine forest, threading through branches and leaves with a fine whisper. Tree shadows spread beneath the moon, long and sparse, neither entangling nor holding anything back. They simply stood where they were, giving their shadows to the earth.
When the wind passed, the pine needles trembled faintly.
When the wind ceased, heaven and earth became broader still.
The wind was not cold. It carried the scent of mountain stone and the clean fragrance of grass and trees, as though someone in a faraway place had softly sighed for this dusty world.
Meng Sheng did not wipe away the tear.
He merely looked at the two fresh graves side by side, his gaze distant, as though it had already crossed this mountain and this night to look toward a longer road.
The living walked