The traveler who stepped through the door that night did not know their name.
Not fully. Bits of syllables floated at the edges of their mind—something with an "r," perhaps, and something soft at the end like a sigh.
They had wandered long through places too quiet to echo and too loud to think, chasing a warmth they'd only dreamed once as a child and never since dared to seek again.
The orchard received them without demand. No ceremony, no trials. Only wind and whispering leaves.
Tian Shen welcomed them with open arms, and Feng Yin offered them a space by the fire that wasn't made of flame, but of listening. They sat, trembling. And they stayed.
In the days that followed, others arrived. Not all from far lands. Some came from within the orchard itself, as if the roots had remembered old promises and grown them into people again.
