Where the Stars Remember

Chapter Three — Whispers and Echoes

Later that day, Isobel pressed her father about the history of the city, the shrine they had visited. He gave nothing away, only redirecting her questions with tired smiles. Something in his voice was guarded—but not cruel. She still felt his care for her. It made her all the more uneasy.

Later that afternoon, Isobel wandered through the market streets with Mei beside her, parasols spinning lazily overhead and the scent of spiced lotus cakes curling through the heat.

Vendors hawked glass trinkets and carved peachwood charms. Monks passed with bells on their sandals. Children chased one another past incense stalls, their laughter ringing like wind chimes.

But here and there, Isobel noticed something odd.

She saw an old man pause near a shrine wall, fingers brushing faded characters—and whisper something that sounded hauntingly like the phrase from the basin. Then, glancing up and realizing she had heard, he muttered an apology and shuffled away.

Later, at a food stall, she asked a vendor if he recognized the words. The man laughed once—sharp and brittle.

“Old poem,” he said, brushing ash from his hands. “Means nothing. Bad luck to speak it aloud.”

“Why?” she pressed.

He shrugged without answering, suddenly too busy slicing pears.

Another woman nearby leaned over and murmured, “They say it’s part of a love story. One that ended badly.” Then, with a nervous glance, she added, “But maybe best not to poke around. Some stories don’t like being woken up.”

By the time they returned to the guest manor, Isobel was pacing.

She pulled out her sketchbook again and traced the inscription’s curve with her fingertip. When the moon bows, the stars forget.

Why would a simple phrase unsettle people? Why were even the most gossipy locals so quick to fall silent?

“Alright,” she said aloud. “I want to know what this means.”

Mei, who had just arrived carrying a half-eaten sweet bun, raised a brow. “You’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one where you’re about to do something strange.”

Isobel snapped her sketchbook shut. “You said there was someone who might know.”

Mei sighed, already resigned. “I did. He's weird.”

“That’s fine.”

“He might lie.”

“I’ll take notes.”

“He might flirt.”

“…Good. That means he’ll talk.”

Mei grinned. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

Isobel was already tying on her boots. “We go at sunrise.”