The willow tree behind the Van Son estate was older than any living soul in the village. Its gnarled branches wept into the pond, and its roots broke the stone path like ancient scars. At dusk, the servants refused to go near. They said they heard children crying from beneath it, even when no one was there.
Minh Lac, however, felt drawn to it.
That night, unable to sleep, he wandered outside in his silk night robe, lantern in hand. The air was thick with humidity, the kind that clung to skin and pulled at breath. Fireflies flickered in and out of view, but the willow stood still — unnaturally so.
"Come closer," a voice whispered.
It wasn't loud. It didn't even seem malicious. But it came from beneath the tree.
He hesitated, then stepped off the path, heart pounding. The ground softened under his feet, as if he were walking on old, wet cloth. The closer he got, the colder the air became. His lantern dimmed.
Then he saw it.
A child, no older than seven, sat curled between the willow's roots. She wore an old ceremonial dress — crimson and gold, now torn and soaked. Her face was pale blue, her eyes wide and unblinking.
But she was smiling.
"You finally came back," she said.
Lạc froze. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
"You promised," she continued, her tiny fingers brushing the dirt beside her. "You said we'd leave together."
"I… I don't know you," Lac whispered, but even he wasn't convinced. His heart knew something his mind refused to accept — a tangle of lives, of forgotten deaths, of oaths made beneath a moonless sky.
The child's smile widened. "You were the one who tied the red string."
Suddenly, something tightened around his wrist. He looked down — and there it was again: the red string, coiled anew, fresh as blood. It stretched from his arm to the child's, binding them.
"No," he gasped, yanking his arm away. "This isn't real—"
But the lantern extinguished.
Darkness fell like a dropped curtain.
---
At that moment, inside the estate, the novice monk from An Linh Temple was speaking to the old housekeeper.
"You say the red string snapped?"
"Yes, this morning. It curled into ash when it broke. Master Lạc doesn't know, but I buried the remains under the shrine."
The monk's eyes darkened. "You shouldn't have done that. Once severed, that string was meant to vanish... not anchor."
"Anchor what?"
"Not what," he murmured, "who."
---
Outside, Lac stumbled backward from the tree, heart pounding, breath shallow. The child had disappeared. Only the red string remained — still wrapped around his wrist.
In the branches above, dozens of shadowy figures now sat — heads drooped, faces hidden.
Watching.
Waiting.
---
End of Episode 2