🌸Moonlight Over the Plum Blossoms

Morning Mist Over the River The mist arrived before the sun did. It rolled over the river in slow, deliberate waves, curling around the wooden stilts of the houses and slipping into alleyways as if it knew the town better than its own people. By the time the first shutters creaked open, the world had softened into shades of grey and pale blue. Lin Yue was already awake. She sat on the low stool beside the small wooden table, her fingers curled around a chipped porcelain bowl. Steam rose from the thin rice porridge, carrying the faint scent of ginger her grandmother insisted was good for the lungs. Lin Yue did not taste it. She watched the steam instead, the way it vanished into the cold air. From the next room came the dry cough she had learned to measure time by. “One bowl is enough,” her grandmother called, voice thin but firm. “We must save the rice.” “I know,” Lin Yue replied softly. Her voice rarely traveled far. It was a habit born from years of speaking only when necessary, of learning that words offered too freely were often returned with silence. She finished the porridge in three careful spoonfuls, rinsed the bowl, and set it upside down to dry. Her movements were quiet, practiced — the kind that left no trace. Before stepping outside, she reached for the woven basket hanging by the door. Inside lay bundles of dried herbs tied with red thread: mugwort, chrysanthemum, and bitterroot. She had gathered them herself along the hillside where the soil still remembered how to nourish things. The door slid open with a reluctant groan. Cold air met her first, sharp and damp. The mist clung to her sleeves as if testing her resolve. She stepped onto the narrow wooden walkway that connected their house to the main path, her worn cloth shoes darkening immediately with moisture. The town was waking. A fishmonger dragged his cart into place near the bridge, its wheels complaining against the stones. A woman shook out a length of faded cloth, the motion slow, as though even the fabric had grown tired. Somewhere, a child laughed — a brief, bright sound that ended too quickly. Lin Yue adjusted the basket on her arm and began to walk. The first person to notice her was the baker’s wife. She had been arranging steamed buns in neat rows when her hands paused midair. Her eyes flicked up, met Lin Yue’s for less than a heartbeat, then dropped back to her work. The neat rows became uneven. Two young boys carrying buckets of water stopped in the middle of the path. One whispered something Lin Yue could not hear. The other glanced at her, wide-eyed, before they both veered off, sloshing water onto their own feet in their haste. She did not slow her steps. Avoidance was easier to bear when acknowledged silently. Apologies made people uncomfortable; explanations made them cruel. At the corner near the apothecary, an elderly man who had once traded jokes with her father turned his back entirely, pretending great interest in a c***k in the wall. Lin Yue felt the familiar tightening in her chest — not sharp enough to wound, but steady enough to remind. She kept walking. The river revealed itself slowly through the mist, its surface dull and unmoving, like metal left too long in the rain. The wooden railings along the bank were slick with moss. No one lingered here anymore. Once, the mornings had been filled with women washing clothes, their laughter carrying over the water. Now the only sound was the faint lap of current against stone — thinner each season. Lin Yue knelt at the edge, setting her basket beside her. Her fingers were numb by the time she untied the first bundle of herbs. She dipped them into the river, watching the green deepen as they drank. The cold bit into her skin, but she did not pull away. The sensation grounded her, reminded her she was still part of the world of breathing things. A whisper brushed her ear. Not a word. Not quite sound. More like the memory of a voice. She stilled. The river’s surface trembled, though the air remained perfectly still. A single ripple widened, then another, intersecting in patterns too deliberate to be wind. Lin Yue lowered her gaze. “I came,” she murmured, so softly the mist seemed to swallow the words. “You don’t need to call so loudly.” The ripples eased. For a moment, the water cleared enough to reflect her face — pale, framed by loose strands of black hair that had escaped her braid. Her eyes looked darker in the river than they did in the mirror at home. Older, somehow. Behind her, footsteps halted. She did not turn. She did not need to. Two women stood a short distance away, their baskets heavy with laundry. They were whispering — not quietly enough. “She’s doing it again.” “Talking to nothing.” “My sister says her mother used to do the same. You remember how that ended.” Lin Yue squeezed the herbs gently, letting the water drip back into the river. She did not react. Reaction fed stories; silence starved them. Still, the words settled over her like fine dust. Her mother’s face rose unbidden in her mind — not clearly, never clearly anymore. A laugh half-remembered. The scent of jasmine. The warmth of a hand that had once felt impossibly strong. Lin Yue blinked, and the image dissolved like mist. By the time she stood, the two women had retreated several steps, as if distance alone could guard them from whatever they believed clung to her. She lifted the basket and inclined her head — a gesture of politeness no one returned. The walk back felt longer. The mist had begun to thin, revealing the worn edges of rooftops and the peeling red paint on doorframes meant to ward off spirits. The paint had faded to the color of old wounds. A gust of wind stirred the prayer ribbons tied to a post near the bridge. Once vibrant, they now hung in tangled knots, their ink washed away by seasons of rain. Lin Yue paused to untangle one, her fingers careful. “If no one remembers what you say,” she whispered to the frayed cloth, “do the words still matter?” The ribbon did not answer. But the wind gentled, as if listening. She retied the knot and continued home. By the time she reached the narrow walkway to her house, the sun had begun its slow climb, turning the mist to pale gold. From inside came the faint clatter of her grandmother preparing the day’s remedies. Lin Yue paused at the threshold, her hand resting against the worn wood. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to imagine a different morning — one where the baker’s wife smiled, where children did not whisper, where the river ran clear and loud and alive. The image felt fragile. Dangerous. She slid the door open and stepped inside before it could break. Outside, the river moved — just enough to disturb the reflection of the empty bank.