Year twenty-six of the firefolk era, Cold Dew.
In the northern reaches of the Nine Provinces, snow had fallen for three days without stopping.
In the border city of Cold Ridge, the light in one household was about to go out. Five-year-old A He lay curled on an earthen kang, his breathing faint, his face ashen blue. The physician shook his head. "The cold poison has entered his heart. His pulse is blocked, his spirit scattering. His Heart Flame is about to go out. I fear he will not survive tonight."
His mother knelt before the stove, her tears spent, her blood drained, murmuring only, "A He, hold on a little longer... Mother will make you porridge, your favorite Okra Porridge..."
But the stove fire was weak, the damp firewood hard to burn, and the flames nearly died several times.
"Light the lanterns!" A voice suddenly rang out beyond the door.
An old woman entered carrying a lantern. She was the widow of the village's Lamp Guarder, over seventy, her back already bent. She set her paper lantern beside the bed. "When a Heart Flame is about to go out, borrow the lantern light of the mortal world to sustain it."
She stepped outside and called loudly, "A He's Heart Flame is about to die. Everyone, please light your lanterns!"
At once, the neighbors answered.
Every household opened its door and came out, without straw capes or rain hats, carrying only lanterns. Some brought paper lanterns, some tin lanterns, and some used bowls as lamps, with oil-soaked wicks for their flames. They said nothing, only set their lanterns before A He's door—one, two, ten... a hundred.
The lanterns lit neither street nor road, only a single doorway.
**Their flames were small as beans, their light fine as silk, yet together