Chapter 20: That Which Lies Between Thorns

  The road past the mountain did not appear on any map.

  It was not hidden — simply ignored, as if even paper and ink refused to remember its shape.

  Shen Liang followed it anyway.

  He moved without a sound. His robes were pin, his bde wrapped in linen, and his breath steady as the mountain fog.

  He had left behind the vilge, the field, even the grave that had no name. But none of it had left him.

  The deeper he walked, the stranger the trees became.

  Some bent toward the earth, as if ashamed. Others leaned into the sky, their branches whispering things in a tongue the wind did not understand.

  Their roots crossed the path like ribs — and under each one, something old stirred faintly, as if dreaming with a clenched jaw.

  Then came the thorns.

  Not brambles — thorns. Sharp as bone, bck as midnight oil, growing not from pnts but from the air itself. They hovered, motionless.

  Unmoving. Waiting.

  Shen Liang paused. He did not draw his bde.

  Instead, he bowed.

  And the thorns parted.

  Only slightly.

  Enough.

  He stepped through. The cut on his shoulder from days ago stung again — not from pain, but recognition.

  The air here was heavier. Not oppressive. Not cruel. Just… alert.

  A breath that had not exhaled in centuries.

  *****

  The forest gave way to stone.

  Pale, worn sbs formed a broken courtyard. In its center stood a single bck flower — growing from a crack between the fgstones.

  No leaves. No stem. Just petals. Thirteen of them. Each one different.

  A voice, neither male nor female, neither near nor far, spoke in the silence:

  “You carry the mark.”

  Shen Liang did not answer.

  “You do not know what it means.”

  Still he remained silent.

  “Good."

  A pause.

  “Then you may ask one question.”

  He thought.

  Of the stranger who vanished.

  Of the elder who forgot to breathe.

  Of the bell that rang without sound.

  Of the dreams that were not his, but waited anyway.

  Finally, he asked:

  “What waits for those who reach the edge?”

  The petals shifted — not in wind, but memory.

  The voice replied:

  “Choice.”

  And the thorns behind him vanished.

  So did the flower.

  So did the courtyard.

  He stood once more in the forest — except now, it was behind him.

  And before him, a river.

  Running uphill.

  Flowing without water.

  Carrying nothing but names.

  (End of chapter)