Wei's flight was delayed. She sighed over the phone, "I've told the guide—he'll take you around today. I'll join you tomorrow." I stood at the guesthouse entrance, trying to recognize the almost pealed-off characters on a wooden plaque, and said, "It's fine."

   

The old village was quieter than I expected. In the room, I put down my luggage and splashed water on my face. On impulse, I changed into local women's clothing—a sheepskin cape with the seven-star motif. I checked myself in the mirror, then went downstairs, sitting on a wooden chair at the entrance and waiting for my guide. "It's Gui'an—Return to Home." I stared at the plaque, thought.

 

Not a while, I saw a tall young man walked toward me against the sunset, unhurried, each step steady. He wore a short dark-indigo jacket and a neatly cut sheepskin vest. Around his waist was a colorful woven sash and small silver bells. As he walked, the bells made a fine, rhythmic sound—not loud, perfectly clear.

   

Closer still, I could see his face. Black hair, slightly long, a little messy in the wind. His skin was very white—whiter than anyone who had spent time under the highland sun should be. His eyes were narrow and long, the outer corners slightly lifted, the pupils very dark. When his gaze fell on me, it was as though it had come from very far away, traveling a long way to reach me. 

   

"Let's go," he said. His voice was low and even, revealing nothing.

   

I assumed he was the guide, so I picked up my bag and followed. 

 

He had a long stride. At first I could keep up, but after half a street I had to jog. He didn't look back, but soon he slowed. After a while, I began to feel hungry. He glanced at me but said nothing, then led me into a small house.

   

It was hidden in a narrow alley. On the wall hung Dongba paper paintings of mountains, deer, sun, and moon, their strokes curling like a child's doodles or some kind of symbol. The handwritten menu was bound with hemp rope. The place felt like another era. 

   

He handed me the menu. I looked through it and said, "You order. I'm okey." He didn't refuse. He told the owner a few dishes, and unexpectedly they were all things I liked. A gray-haired man wrote them down, nodding, then glanced at my companion, then back at me, several times. 

   

While we waited, he asked, "Is everything all right here?"

   

I said I liked it here. He paused, nodded and didn't ask further. I asked, "What's your name?"

   

He didn't answer directly but pulled an order slip from the table, turned it over, and took an old fountain pen from his pocket—the cap worn shiny. He drew for a while. I leaned in. On the paper was a small figure, and beside it a pictographic symbol: a person reaching out a hand, holding a red thread, the other end connected to another small figure.

   

"This means ‘to bind,'" he said. "It's like tying a thread around a soul. Once tied, it can't be untied." He pushed the paper toward me and wrote a few curling characters beside the symbol. "This is my name."

   

I stared at the drawing and said, "So what should I call you?"

   

"Whatever you like, and I know you are calling me." He folded the paper, didn't throw it away, and put it in his vest pocket.

   

I told him my name. He was silent for a moment, repeated it and then said, "I know."  He took a sip of water and added, "It's a beautiful name." My ears grew warm.

   

The food arrived. As we ate, I asked about local stories, and the deity Sanduo. He answered patiently and the details were so dense it was as if he had stood there watching.

   

"How do you know all this?" I asked, forgetting to eat.

   

He picked up mushrooms with his chopsticks and gently put them in my bowl. "I've lived a long time."

   

 

When we came out, the sun had fully set. The sky was deep blue with a hint of green, stars already out and densely packed. I asked where we were going next. He paused, then said tentatively, "Would you like to go up to the top? There's a temple."

   

I said yes.

   

We climbed slowly. The mountain was not high, the slope not steep. 

   

The temple was not large. In the main hall stood the deity Sanduo: white face, white helmet, white armor, a silver halberd in hand. On the offering table were butter lamps, their smoke rising in thin lines, along with highland barley, fruit, and cypress branches. 

   

He knelt. I followed and knelt beside him. Up close, I saw a red thread on the inner side of his left wrist, starting at the wrist crease and running up the forearm, past the elbow, climbing to the upper arm, disappearing into his sleeve. The thread was very fine, dark and muted, as if painted with old cinnabar. I couldn't resist taking photos. His eyes were closed; I thought he didn't notice.

   

I put down the phone and pressed my palms together. Just then, the central butter lamp's flame straightened and stood perfectly upright—no wavering, no flickering. A tiny bud trembled at its tip, as if touched by a finger. The smoke in the incense burner drew itself into a single fine thread and curled upward, bending once in midair before dispersing. Outside, the wind chime at the eaves rang once without wind, clear and crisp.

   

I opened my eyes. He was still kneeling, the candlelight casting his shadow on the wall, swaying, unclear. 

   

On the way down, he walked beside me, steps relaxed, shoulders no longer tense. I stole a glance. There seemed to be a faint smile at the corner of his mouth, almost invisible unless one looked closely.

   

At the guesthouse entrance, I stopped. "It was a great day. See you tomorrow."

   

He looked at me but didn't speak at once. A long moment passed—so long it felt like a lifetime—then he said, "Thank you for being here with me tonight." He smiled. His eyes under the dark blue night sky were deep and quiet, like someone who had waited a long time for rain, who finally felt it fall but knew the sky would have to clear tomorrow.

   

"You should go back now," he said.

   

I heard Wei's calling me.

   

I opened my eyes.

   

The room was orange-red. Sunset poured through the wooden lattice window. When she saw I was awake, she said, "Hey, how are you feeling? It's probably because we just arrived and you're not used to the climate."

   

"Wasn't your flight delayed?" I asked, dazed.

   

"You're still half asleep, aren't you? We came together two hours ago—we just arrived!" 

   

I sat up. Wei went on.

   

"Oh, right—while you were resting, I went to an exhibition of folk stories." She flipped through her photos and sighed. "A few hundred years ago, a young couple decided they'd rather die together for love than let the Manchu rulers' feudal rules dictate their lives. They went to the temple on the mountain. At the last moment, the deity Sanduo appeared and saved the girl, who still had a breath left, and took the boy's soul with him. But the boy's soul refused to go. He stayed on the mountain and became the temple's guardian, waiting all this time."

   

She paused, "And the guide explained how to recognize your true love. If the same red thread grows on both your left hands, from the wrist all the way to the heart, then you're the one. It means you live and die together."

 

I was stunned, then grabbed my phone and flipped through the album. Not a single one. The photo about him, not a single one left. 

 

Suddenly, there was a slight itch on the inner side of my left wrist. I looked down. A thin dark red line had appeared beneath the skin. It started at the wrist crease and ran up the forearm, past the elbow, disappearing into my sleeve. The color was muted, as if painted with old cinnabar. 

 

"It's like tying a thread around a soul. Once tied, it can't be untied."