The traveler arrived near noon.
Ling Chen saw him first from the hill.
A thin man walked slowly along the dirt road toward Willow Creek, leaning on a wooden staff. His clothes were white once but now dust-colored, his straw hat hanging loosely behind his back. At his waist swung a gourd, and his steps were steady despite his age.
He looked ordinary.
Yet something about him felt… clear.
Ling Chen didn't understand the feeling. The man seemed sharper than the world around him, like a painting drawn with darker ink than everything else.
Old Yu saw him too.
The old gravekeeper frowned.
"Stay near the hut today," he told Ling Chen.
"Why?"
Old Yu didn't answer immediately. He watched the traveler approach the village entrance.
"…Some people," he finally said quietly, "are not meant to be understood by ordinary eyes."
The traveler did not enter the village.
Instead, he walked straight toward the burial hill.
Toward Ling Chen.
The boy stood awkwardly beside the graves as the man approached. Up close, the traveler's age became impossible to guess. His face held wrinkles, but his eyes were bright and steady — clearer than the winter sky.
They met before the hut.
The man smiled faintly.
"You live here?"
Ling Chen nodded.
"I help Old Yu care for the graves."
"Ah," the traveler said softly. "Then you keep company with memory."
Ling Chen tilted his head. "Memory?"
The man crouched beside a nearby tombstone and brushed dust from the carved name.
"People believe the dead leave," he said. "But what truly remains is not the body… nor the spirit."
He tapped the stone lightly.
"It is the imprint they leave upon the world."
Ling Chen felt a chill.
He had never told anyone what he heard from the graves.
"How did you—"
The traveler suddenly released a small porcelain cup from his sleeve.
He didn't throw it.
He simply let go.
It fell.
Before Ling Chen consciously moved, his hand reached out.
He caught it.
Silence.
The traveler stared at him.
Ling Chen stared at the cup in his hand.
He didn't remember deciding to catch it.
For the first time, the traveler's expression changed.
The faint smile vanished.
His eyes sharpened.
He stood slowly.
"…Interesting," he murmured.
He stepped closer and gently placed two fingers on Ling Chen's wrist.
A moment passed.
Then another.
The traveler froze.
His breathing stopped.
For the first time since arriving, the man looked unsettled.
He whispered — not to Ling Chen, but to himself.
"Impossible…"
His gaze lifted toward the sky.
"Heaven… how did you let this one exist?"