The night was as dark as ink, thick and impenetrable. Hongcun—this ancient village renowned as a "village within a painting"—had shed its daytime bustle under the moonlight, leaving only the silent silhouettes of white walls and black tiles outlined against the darkness. Like a vast ink-wash dream, it slumbered peacefully in the mountain hollow of southern Anhui.
My name is Lin Yuan, a forty-year-old failure. At this moment, I stood before the carved wooden window on the second floor of the inn, gazing out at the horse-head walls and winding waterways bathed in moonlight, yet my heart remained barren. The cold camera in my hands was aimed at this breathtaking night scene, but it couldn't capture even a spark to ignite my withered soul.
Thirteen years. Thirteen long years I had wandered like a lost ghost. Back then, I harbored the arrogant dream of becoming a top photographer. Ignoring my wife's tears and my daughter's innocent calls, I resolutely left that once-warm home. I believed I could create earth-shattering works, stand atop the world, and make them proud of me. But reality slapped me hard across the face. Now, my career lay in ruins, my inspiration dried up, and even making ends meet had become a struggle. The guilt toward my family deep in my heart grew like wild vines, threatening to devour me whole.
"Lin Yuan, oh Lin Yuan, what exactly are you pursuing? And what have you lost?" I murmured to the night outside, my voice hoarse with endless fatigue and regret. I raised my camera and mechanically pressed the shutter, but the image in the viewfinder remained cold, unable to touch my numb heartstrings.
Just then, a faint song drifted into my ears like mountain mist. The voice was ethereal and distant, carrying an indescribable ancient charm mixed with childlike innocence. It didn't resemble any modern melody but seemed to flow from the depths of time itself—a whisper that gently knocked on the softest corner of my heart, awakening a long-dormant sense of familiarity.
"Who's singing?" I frowned, my curiosity piqued by this sudden melody. Setting down my camera, I threw on my coat, pushed open the creaking door, and stepped into Hongcun's midnight labyrinth.
The stone-paved road gleamed white under the moonlight, flanked by old houses standing dark and imposing. Occasional windows glowed with dim yellow light, adding to the mystery. The song came and went intermittently, as if deliberately guiding me. Following that ethereal melody, I wove through narrow alleys, past clear waterways, my footsteps echoing distinctly in the silent village. The air was filled with the mixed scent of moisture and moss, along with the unique chill of night.
I don't know how long I walked before finding myself in the depths of an unfamiliar alley. Suddenly, the space opened up, revealing a peculiar courtyard. The walls weren't high, but inside hung various large fish lanterns—carp, silver carp, and some with ancient designs I couldn't identify. They cast soft, warm red light, swaying gently in the breeze. Light and shadow interplayed, transforming the entire courtyard into a dreamlike sanctuary. The mysterious song emanated from deep within this swaying red glow.
"What is this place?" I wondered, filled with confusion. I had never seen such a sight during my daytime tours. Could it be some unknown local custom? I hesitated, but ultimately, drawn by the song and the strange scene, I stepped through the courtyard gate.
The stone slabs beneath my feet seemed more ancient than those outside. Walking among the dense lanterns felt like entering a bizarre world of fish. The lantern light warmed my face, yet carried an inexplicable eeriness. In the center of the courtyard stood an ancient well wrapped in vines. Beside it sat a little girl in a dark blue old-fashioned dress, her back to me, softly humming that ancient ballad.
"Little one, it's so late—why are you here alone?" I approached cautiously, speaking gently.
The girl didn't turn around, nor did her singing stop. I took a few more steps, trying to see her face clearly. At that moment, I felt the air around me undergo a subtle change. The light became deeper and more mysterious, the humidity suddenly increased, carrying a faint scent of aged wood and earth. The distant sound of flowing water became unusually clear, as if right beside my ear.
I stopped abruptly, looking around in alarm. The scene before me sent chills down my spine—this was still Hongcun, yet not the Hongcun I knew! The building outlines were vaguely similar, but the details exuded an indescribable antiquity and decay. The street layout seemed unchanged, yet I saw no trace of modernity. Even the stone slabs beneath my feet appeared more weathered. The air carried a stagnant, solemn, even slightly cold atmosphere.
"Who are you? Why have you intruded here?" The girl finally stopped singing and slowly turned around. Moonlight filtered through the lantern gaps onto her face, and I finally saw her features clearly—about twelve or thirteen years old, with a delicate oval face and large, bright eyes. Her gaze was clear yet carried a melancholy that didn't match her age. Her appearance was both strange and, in certain moments, startlingly familiar.
"I... I'm Lin Yuan, a photographer," I answered instinctively, my heart pounding from the recent changes. "I came because I heard singing. May I ask, where is this? Why is it different from the Hongcun I saw earlier?"
The girl didn't answer immediately. Her large eyes studied me carefully, her expression complex, as if examining something that shouldn't exist here. In this brief silence, chaotic footsteps and shouts suddenly echoed from the distance, growing closer with obvious hostility.
"Oh no! They've discovered a living person has entered!" The girl's face changed dramatically, her previous melancholy replaced by tension. She suddenly reached out and grabbed my wrist. "Quick, follow me! We can't stay here!"
Her hand was ice-cold but surprisingly strong.
"What living person? Who are they?" I stumbled as she pulled me, my mind full of questions.
"Don't ask! If we don't leave now, it'll be too late!" The girl didn't look back, her tone urgent. "They're the Shadow Village guards. If they find you're alive, they'll capture you! In this world, the living are not welcome!"
"Shadow Village? The living?" My heart sank heavily, and a tremendous fear seized me. What was happening? Had I really stumbled into some forbidden place?
The shouts behind us grew clearer, mixed with angry commands: "Catch that living person whose yang energy hasn't dispersed! We cannot let him disturb the yin-yang order!"
The girl pulled me along like a nocturnal creature familiar with the terrain, weaving swiftly through the maze of alleys. I followed passively, my heart hammering in my chest. Finally, she led me into what appeared to be an abandoned water mill reeking of mold.