Jin sat on his bed, early morning light filtering through the lattice of his window. Dust motes drifted lazily in the sunbeams, and the soft gurgle of the waterfall outside filled the room, a gentle hum against the ache in his chest. His eyes traced the rough patterns of the ancient stonework on the walls, and questions swirled in his mind like autumn leaves caught in a gust. Why would his father betray them like this? Where was Bao? The knot in his stomach tightened with worry, but the only answer was the steady murmur of water, offering the tiniest thread of comfort.
A soft knock echoed against the door, and the matronly woman who had guided him in earlier entered. Her presence was calm, yet there was a faint sternness in her eyes, as if she had seen too much suffering to be easily rattled. "Supper is ready in the dining hall," she said, smiling gently. "Come get something to eat."
Jin realized how hollow his stomach felt and rose to follow her down the long corridors. Monks moved quietly through the halls, and other children shuffled along, their footsteps muffled against the stone. The air smelled faintly of incense and warm stone, a combination that made his chest ache with nostalgia and unease.
They entered a large hall, sparse and dimly lit. Children sat in neat rows at long tables while monks moved between them, placing bowls of dumplings and thin, steaming stew onto wooden boards. The room was mostly silent, save for the occasional whisper or the slurp of someone eating. Jin sat down, watching the other children: some hunched over their bowls, others casting nervous glances at the walls as though expecting the room to close in on them. The meal passed with little conversation, the quiet punctuated only by the crackling of the fire in the hearth.
After the meal, a monk's voice rose, calm and firm. "Everyone back to their rooms. Take rest. We will visit each of you shortly." Jin walked back to his chamber, head heavy with thoughts he could not untangle. No sooner had he entered than the woman returned. "Did you enjoy your lunch?" she asked softly.
"Sure…" he muttered, unsure if he truly felt it.
"A speaker will announce everything and clarify some questions you newcomers will have," she added, offering another small smile before leaving, the heavy door closing with a resonant clunk.
Jin sank onto his bed, staring at the window where the sunlight had shifted. Maybe this place could be his new home, he thought. But somewhere deep in his chest, a hollow ache remained. Could anywhere truly be home without his beloved mother?
Bao's skull throbbed violently as he cracked his eyes open. The world wavered, smeared with colors and floating lights, and it took several moments for the shapes to resolve. He blinked, groaning as the sharp ache behind his eyes gradually dulled. His rags were torn and dusty, but a tight bandage around his head confirmed he was still alive. The wooden interior of the hut was crude and dim, the walls warped and damp, smelling faintly of mold and smoke.
He picked himself up carefully, listening. Muffled voices drifted from outside. Creeping to the door, he cracked it open and peered into the dim morning. Two villagers stood under the shadowed boughs of a gnarled tree, arms crossed, murmuring to each other. Their faces turned toward him, eyes wary and calculating. Bao's breath caught. Panic flared. He slipped outside, heart hammering, and ran past two low, leaning houses, then a small, untended garden.
Ahead, a group of children huddled together, some kneeling, others sitting cross-legged, heads bent close as if sharing a secret. Bao slowed, heart pounding in his chest. Even from a distance, he could see their personalities shining through. A freckled boy twisted a string tied around his wrist, fidgeting nervously as he listened. A girl with a braid draped over one shoulder tapped her fingers on the ground in a soft rhythm, humming under her breath. A small wiry boy leaned against a tree, scanning the area with sharp, watchful eyes, ready for danger at any moment. A quiet girl pressed her knees to her chest, whispering reassurances to a younger child clinging to her sleeve. Each movement, each glance, carried its own story, and Bao felt a pang of both curiosity and fear.
At the center of the circle stood a tall, dark-haired man, commanding but calm. His gaze swept over Bao before Bao could fully take in the surroundings. "Young man," the man said, his gravelly voice steady yet filled with weight, "you've awakened from your long nap. Come, join us. I was about to tell these younglings about our past."
Bao stepped forward, limbs numb and head pounding. His thoughts tumbled over themselves: Why am I here? Can I trust them? What happened to Jin? The uncertainty pressed down on him, mixing with the pain from his head and the lingering fear from earlier.
The man's eyes, half-hidden in the dim lamp light, scanned the upturned faces of the children. "Our story began two hundred years ago," he said, voice low and solemn. "Our ancestors were once united, but division came through the teachings of a newcomer. He claimed to be sent by Buddha to show us the true path, promising riches and desires beyond imagining. Some believed him. Others, like us, knew that wealth and worldly desire were not the way to enlightenment."
He paused, letting the words settle in the children's minds. Bao watched the reactions of those around him: the freckled boy's fingers twitched on his string, the braided girl's humming slowed to a thoughtful silence, the small wiry boy's eyes never left the shadows beyond the circle, and the quiet girl's comforting gestures to the younger child grew firmer and more resolute. Despite their fear, there was a subtle resilience in each child, a spark of identity and life that made Bao ache with longing—for belonging, for safety, and for home.
"Some feared mythical creatures—demons that might rise to rule the land—and thought we must prepare for battle," the man continued. "They said the messenger came from Buddha himself, that we should embrace material things and bend the world to our will. But we could not. We chose another way."
The man clasped his hands behind his back, shadow obscuring half his face. His gravelly tone grew heavier. "We became outcasts. Our brethren formed a hierarchy of fear and control. We chose survival through unity, protection, and faith in the light of Buddha. That is why we exist apart, and why we take in newcomers like you. Here, under this roof, we hope to rebuild what was lost: a family united under true law, learning and growing together. You are one of us now, if you choose to be."
Bao felt a strange warmth in his chest, fragile yet real, mingled with the lingering ache of fear and confusion. He looked at the children around him again—their quirks, their whispered questions, their cautious curiosity—and for the first time since being separated from Jin, he wondered if he might survive here. And maybe, just maybe, he would find Jin too.