Zhang Zheng didn't say a word about the fallen tree or the fire's smoke still burning in his chest. Mihir didn't ask. Sometimes silence said more.
The descent into the valley was quiet. Mountain air grew heavier with the scent of smoke and pine, and the winding road flattened into pale fields marked by early summer harvest. Beneath the swaying pines, a village lay nestled like a forgotten memory, roofs curved with age, alleys narrow and dry.
Zhang Zheng's steps slowed. His posture remained upright, soldier-like, but Mihir could see the stillness in his shoulders — not peace, but caution. Mihir adjusted the strap of his satchel and followed without speaking.
The village was not what Mihir expected. It was... ordinary.
A farmer poured water into stone troughs. A youth carried baskets of greens. Two boys kicked a wooden shuttlecock near the well. As the pair passed, heads turned briefly, eyes lingered, and then looked away. No one smiled. No one greeted.
At the edge of the square, an elder looked up from sharpening his sickle. His gaze landed on Zhang Zheng, unblinking. Then he returned to his work.
Mihir whispered, "They do not seem surprised."
Zheng replied without looking at him. "They are not."
No banners hung. No offerings at the shrine. The air was dry, unscented by incense. In a village where names carried the weight of ancestors, Zhang Zheng's name stirred no incense smoke, no whispered prayer.
"They do not welcome you," Mihir said.
"I did not expect them to."
They walked past shuttered shops and empty thresholds. The sound of a broom sweeping dust echoed somewhere behind them. A single rooster crowed late, confused.
Near the center of the village stood a courtyard house, larger than the rest, but worn by disrepair. The gate was half-open. Wind dragged a strand of faded red ribbon across the ground.
Zhang Zheng paused there.
"This is my father's house," he said. "Or... it was."
Mihir looked at the lintel. The name plaque was missing. Only two nails remained, rusted.
Inside, there were voices — children laughing, a spoon against porcelain, a door sliding shut. Mihir heard none of it clearly, but he felt the stillness, the kind that follows after fire.
"Your stepmother?" he asked.
Zhang Zheng nodded.
Mihir placed a hand lightly on Zheng's back, a gesture without words. He did not ask more.
Behind closed doors, stories waited.And beneath every indifferent glance,something remembered.