In the hush of dawn, the incense at An Linh Temple curled upward like wandering spirits, delicate and unanchored. A pair of black crows sat atop the weather-worn gate, their eyes gleaming, unmoving. Beneath them, the wind swept dry leaves across the mossy courtyard as a lone boy knelt, his palms clasped and eyes shut.
He was no ordinary boy.
The villagers whispered that Minh Lạc, adopted by the master of Vân Sơn estate, was born under a cursed star—midnight, seventh lunar month, during a solar eclipse. He was swaddled in red string at birth, and a half-burnt talisman had been found clenched in his infant fist.
People said a soul had returned in his place.
And yet, he grew quiet and obedient, always walking half a step behind others, never meeting anyone's gaze for too long. His skin was cool to the touch, his voice soft like drifting mist. He never spoke of dreams. He never cried.
Until that morning.
> "Why… can I remember dying?"
His whisper melted into the incense smoke, unheard by all but one — the young novice monk who had silently approached from behind. The monk, barely older than Lạc, paused.
> "You shouldn't be able to," he said quietly, "unless you have."
Lạc turned, startled, meeting the boy's eyes — eyes that were far too old, far too knowing.
> "Who are you?"
> "Someone whose death didn't stick either."
---
At Vân Sơn estate, Master Phủ had begun to dream again — the same recurring vision of a bloodied child crying at the threshold, whispering "Father, open the door."
His doctor prescribed herbal teas. The geomancer blamed bad feng shui. But the truth gnawed like termites beneath painted floors: someone had come back. And something else was following.
That evening, Lạc stood before the lacquered ancestral altar, fingers trembling. The red string from his childhood had snapped that morning without warning.
He held it now, frayed and coiled like a dead serpent.
Behind him, the lanterns flickered even though the wind had stopped.
---
End of Episode 1