Once upon a time…

I was born in a river town where the magistrate taxed shadows. Each spring, we held the Lantern Draught: we let paper fish drift upstream, and if one swam against the current, we said the year would forgive our debts. Mine did. I took it as a sign and left with a bamboo flute, a kettle, and a debt ledger I had stolen from a clerk.

The road ran past red walls, tea hills, and pale graves. At a ferry, the boatman asked for the weight of my name. I said, “Lighter than smoke.” He nodded and charged me in silence. That night I met a troupe of ghost-wrestlers who pinned down dreams for pay. They said the emperor’s inspectors were coming to weigh every breath. I hid my ledger in my kettle and played my flute. The tune called paper fish from the air. They swam around us, bright and brave.

When the inspectors arrived, their scales cracked under the fish-light. The troupe fled. I sold the kettle, paid a widow’s tax, and kept walking, lighter than before, owing only a song.