The old monk finished speaking.
The river suddenly receded a little.
The old monk's figure dissolved into the mist over the water.
Sanzang was still in swaddling clothes.
Still an infant.
Still held in someone's arms.
Only the hands holding him had changed.
They were a woman's hands.
Her fingertips were bloody.
Her cuffs were smeared with mud.
Outside the government office, night hung low over the riverbank.
A storm lantern hung by the shore, its flame flickering in the wind.
The woman knelt in the mud, her hair disheveled, her clothes mostly soaked.
She held the swaddled child, her shoulders and back bent low.
Footsteps sounded in the distance.
The woman looked down at the child in her arms.
The child lay motionless.
She reached out to touch his face.
Just as her fingers touched the swaddling, she drew them back a little.
As though afraid the blood on her fingertips would stain him.
"Don't be afraid."
"Don't be afraid."
Her voice trembled terribly.
Tears fell.
They struck the swaddling.
Sanzang's eyes were open.
He saw her lower her head.
Saw her chin draw close to his forehead.
Saw the bloodshot whites of her eyes.
The woman suddenly pulled the child against her heart.
She held him tight.
Sanzang's face pressed against her chest.
Through the cold, wet fabric, he could hear her heart beating fast and erratically.
"My son..."
Those were the only words she spoke.
The footsteps suddenly drew closer.
The woman jerked her head up.
The lantern revealed the terror in her eyes.
That terror flashed for only an instant before she gritted her teeth and forced it down.
She lowered her head and took out a sheet of paper.
Her fingertips were still bleeding.
Sanzang watched her from her arms.
The woman finished writing the