Once upon a time…

I live alone by the willow marsh at the edge of our village. Each spring, the reeds whisper names. We call it the Festival of Borrowed Breath: you tie a reed flute, blow once, and the wind borrows your breath to guide lost travelers. This year, the wind spoke my sister’s name, gone long ago on the northern road.

I set off with a basket, a knife, and the reed flute. The road ran past mulberry fields and old border stones where carved tigers were worn smooth. At dusk, I reached the River of Copper Scales. The ferry was gone, but the river holds a rule: toss a coin, and a fish will rise to bargain. I tossed my last coin. A carp surfaced, bright as a worn buckle, and said it wanted the flute.

I traded. The carp carried me across. In the marsh beyond, I found a caravan wreck, and my sister’s hairpin snagged on a wheel. She limped out alive, thin as paper.

We returned home. At the next festival, we tied two flutes. The wind laughed, full and warm.