When Tian Shen and Feng Yin stepped through the dream-door, the world changed—not as an explosion, but as an unfolding. A single petal, curling outward to reveal a horizon held tight behind veils of habit, fear, and forgetting.
They did not arrive in a place so much as an echo.
The village was not ruined, but paused. Lanterns swayed in still air. Leaves clung to branches as if unsure of when to fall. Paths wound through fields that had once borne crops and laughter, now overgrown with silence.
Children watched them from shadowed porches, eyes wide but unafraid. Elders stirred but did not rise. It was a town that had held its breath for too long.
Feng Yin let her fingers brush the ground. "It remembers its name. It just doesn't know how to say it anymore."
Tian Shen nodded. "We won't teach. We'll listen first."
They set no camp. The door had not led them to build, but to be. They walked the edges of gardens, nodded to strangers, and hummed beneath forgotten trees. It was enough.
