The red silk clings to me, heavy and cold, like river water seeping into my bones. Hands I cannot see fold the fabric over me, layer by layer, in the quiet hush of the preparation. The air carries the sharp scent of wet ink and charred paper—joss offerings being folded, stacked for the fire. Water drips into a basin, slow and deliberate... a purification for a world I no longer touch.

"Do you remember the apricot orchard? That spring when blossoms fell like soft rain. I pressed a petal into your palm... so fragile it could’ve crumbled. ‘Don’t forget me when the petals fall,’ I said, half-laughing, half-scared you’d leave and never come back. You closed your hand tight, promised you’d keep it. Is it still in your satchel, tucked between pages? Or did it turn to dust on your journey?"

The silk shifts, tightening against my form. They’re pinning my hair now, weaving red cords through it, pulling until it stings. I wore my hair loose for you once, with that silver hairpin you liked—the one I lost in the canal that summer. The memory pulls at me, sharp as the bell that chimes now. Once. Twice. It slices through the air, through me.

"The fish... you remember? The silver one we caught behind Grandmother’s house. ‘It’s too beautiful to die in a bucket,’ I said. You laughed, your fingers wet as it slipped free, vanishing into the reeds. I thought we’d have years to laugh like that."

Incense curls in, thick and bitter, stinging my throat... or maybe it’s the ache of missing you. Paper offerings rustle—coins, clothes, things for a place I don’t understand. The room feels smaller, like the village doors are closing, locking us in with the smoke and the silence.

"Are you there? Holding that petal still? Or is it just me, holding onto you?"