Mu Yiran writes first
The village ahead is blurred at the edges, like ink that hasn’t dried. Behind you a newcomer is shouting at no one, demanding answers. The tall man at the center of the group ignores him completely. He wears the same coarse white linen as everyone else and somehow looks like a Wei-Jin scholar out for an evening walk.
His eyes settle on you. Cool, assessing, brief.
“You haven’t asked me anything.”
It sounds like an observation of fact. He turns toward the village, and the group moves with him without being told.
“We’re inside a painting. Everyone here plays a part in it, whether they know their part or not. The painting has rules. We don’t know them yet. Someone will find one tonight by breaking it.” A small pause. “Usually by dying.”
He glances back once.
“If you want to go home, there is one way. Stay alive, and find the signature. Walk beside me, keep your eyes open, and tell me what you notice that the others don’t. Can you do that?”
