The town had no name.
Not anymore.
Once it had been a merchant stop—caravans, coin, shallow wells, baked bread in the morning. But now, its gates stood half-broken, and its windows watched like eyes too tired to blink.
Kaifeng arrived just past dusk.
The wind carried sand, not sound.
He didn't knock. He walked in.
A lone guard sitting against a stone wall half-raised his spear, then lowered it without a word. He didn't recognize Kaifeng.
But something in him still stepped aside.
Inside the town, the streets were lined with shutters, not people. The taverns were closed. The wells had rope, but no buckets.
Kaifeng stopped at the center square, where once a statue stood.
Now only the base remained.
And on it — freshly painted in dry, stuttering ink:
"When she passed through, we forgot who we were."
A child appeared.
Dust-covered, wide-eyed. Holding something out.
Kaifeng knelt.
It was a dried plum wrapped in cloth.
"She gave this to my mother," the child said.
"And your mother?"
"She forgot to eat it."
Kaifeng took the cloth gently. It was old — too old to be in this condition. Preserved not by time, but by intent.
And pressed inside the folds: another note.
"Do you remember the orchard?"
Kaifeng closed his eyes.
He didn't remember.
But his hands ached as if they had once held a branch.
He stayed the night at an empty home. The owner was gone, or had never returned. He laid the plum on the floor. He didn't eat it.
Just watched.
And waited.
At midnight, a figure knocked on the door.
Once. Then again.
Soft. Familiar.
Kaifeng opened it.
A woman stood there. Hooded. Dust on her sleeves. She carried no weapon.
"You left the stake," she said.
Kaifeng didn't answer.
"And you left the name."
Still no response.
Then she pulled back her hood.
It wasn't Shén Lüyun.
But her eyes were the same color.
"She said if you came this far, I should give you this."
She held out a scroll — plain, unsealed, marked only with a single character:
"迟" – Delay.
Kaifeng didn't take it.
"You followed her," he said.
"No," the woman replied.
"She followed you."
"Then why give me this?"
The woman stepped back, into the moonlight.
"Because she said… you need more time."
"Time to do what?"
The woman paused.
And then:
"To remember how it ends."
She turned and walked away.
Kaifeng didn't stop her.
He opened the scroll.
Inside: no instructions. No technique. Only a map.
Drawn in soft ink, like someone had drawn it by memory — not of roads, but of moments.
At the center of the map, a tree. Twisted. Leafless.
Below it, three words.
"Where silence was born."
End of Chapter 10