As the time flows 6 years later in a forest stretched endlessly, a world of green and gold where the sunlight filtered softly through the canopy. Birds flitted between branches, their songs mingling with the rustle of leaves.
Yang, now eight years old, wandered deeper into the woods than she ever had before. Her adopted parents had warned her not to stray too far, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear. She followed the sound of a river, chasing the laughter of the wind that always seemed to whisper her name.
Yet as the shadows grew longer, she realized she no longer knew the way home.
Yang's hazel eyes darted nervously between the trees. Her hands clenched the hem of her pale blue robe.
"Wind," she whispered, as she often did when she felt alone. "Please… guide me back."
But no answer came.
A twig snapped behind her. She spun around — and froze.
A boy stood a few paces away. His long, snow-white hair shimmered in the dappled sunlight, tied neatly with a silver ornament. His pale silver-gray eyes were sharp, almost too calm for someone his age. He looked like he had stepped out of a painting — elegant, distant, graceful
For a moment, Yang thought she was dreaming.
The boy tilted his head. "You're lost."
Yang puffed out her cheeks. "I'm not!" she insisted, though her voice wavered.
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips — a rare, fleeting thing. "You are."
Yang's face heated, and she stomped her little foot. "Then… then can you help me find my way back?"
The boy didn't answer right away. He studied her as though trying to place a memory. Something about her presence felt familiar, though he could not explain why. At last, he nodded and stepped forward.
The path he chose was quiet, guided by instinct. Yang followed, glancing at him from the corner of her eyes.
"You didn't tell me your name," she said.
"Yin," he replied simply.
Yang blinked. "Yin…" She smiled. "I'm Yang."
The two names hung in the air like a secret, strange and fated. Yin and Yang.
For a time, they walked in silence, the wind carrying only the soft crunch of leaves beneath their feet. Then Yang suddenly stopped, tugging gently at her long black hair.
"Wait!" she said brightly. "I want to remember this."
Yin raised an eyebrow. "Remember what?"
"This moment," she said with a grin. She plucked a single strand of her hair and held it out to him. "Here. Take this. So you won't forget me."
Yin stared at the strand in his hand, bemused. No one had ever given him something so… simple, yet so personal. After a moment, he tugged at his own white hair and handed her a strand in return.
Yang's eyes lit up. She clasped it tightly as if it were the most precious treasure in the world.
"Now we'll never forget each other."
When they parted, each returned home in silence, hearts strangely full. That night, both children tied the strands of hair into cords and fashioned them into necklaces.
Yang held hers to her chest as she looked at the stars. "One day, we'll meet again."
Far away, Yin fingered the white cord at his neck, gazing at the cherry blossoms drifting in the moonlight. Though he didn't smile, his heart was warmer than he could explain.
Neither understood why, but deep inside, they both felt the same thing —
a bond that had begun long before their meeting,
and would last long after.