The stranger beneath the rain

The rain hadn't stopped for days.

It drizzled endlessly over the mountains, turning paths into rivers and trees into shivering silhouettes. The world looked soaked in ink. Mud clung to boots. Leaves sagged. Even the wind seemed too tired to blow.

Tyan Shi stood under the tattered edge of a wooden shrine roof, watching raindrops roll down the broken dragon carvings above him. He was soaked to the bone, but he didn’t move. He hadn’t moved in hours.

A shallow grave lay before him. Not freshly dug—but fresh enough.

The name etched into the crude wooden post was already smudged. Just three characters left, scratched by someone in a hurry. He didn’t recognize the name, and maybe that’s what hurt more. Someone had died here. Alone. Forgotten. Like so many others.

He closed his eyes, letting the rain slide down his scarred chest, through the thin fabric of his travel-worn robes. The glow from his lotus-shaped scar flickered faintly—barely visible unless you looked for it.

Behind him, a child cried. A small village girl—her clothes torn, cheeks muddy, holding a broken comb in one hand and a handful of wild berries in the other. She hadn't spoken a word since he carried her out from under the dead merchant’s cart two days ago. She just followed him.

Tyan glanced at her now.

She wasn’t crying loudly. Just small sounds—hiccups, soft whimpers she tried to bury in her own sleeve. He could tell she hated being seen like that.

Without a word, he crouched down and offered the remains of a dried meat strip from his pouch. She didn’t take it at first. Then, slowly, she reached out, her tiny fingers brushing his palm. It was the first time she touched him.

For some reason, that moment struck harder than any blade.

Far away, in a different world entirely, Xuneer knelt before a lotus pond inside the Jade Silence Courtyard. The rain hadn't reached this high temple yet, but storm clouds loomed across the peaks.

Her long sleeves dragged against the moss-lined stones as she dipped her hand into the water. It was warm. Still.

But her heart wasn’t.

A monk’s prayer bell rang in the distance—clear, hollow, and strange. Like the sound of something about to end.

She didn’t know why she felt like crying.

All day, something had ached in her chest. Not a pain, exactly, but a pressure. As if someone far away was hurting and she could feel it through the air. She pressed a hand to her collarbone and whispered, “Who are you?”

The reflection in the water rippled. For a brief second, she thought she saw someone standing behind her. A shadow. A boy with long dark hair, half his face hidden behind a cracked mask.

But when she turned, there was no one.

Back under the shrine, night had fallen. Tyan Shi leaned back against a splintered beam, eyes half-shut, but fully alert. The girl slept nearby, curled in his outer robe. She had stopped crying, but he could still hear the sound of her breathing—shallow and fragile.

His thoughts drifted. He didn't know why he helped her. Maybe because she reminded him of someone he couldn't quite remember. Maybe because he hated the silence. Or maybe... maybe it was because part of him still believed he was meant to protect something.

Even if he didn’t know what anymore.

He reached up, touching the faint glow at the center of his chest.

The light pulsed once—soft, quiet, but warm. A heartbeat.

A reminder that somewhere in this ruined world, a thread still connected him to something. Or someone.

He just didn’t know who.

Not yet.

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