Chapter 13: The Thread and the Net
That night, a silver hush fell over the willow. Not fog. Not cloud. A net that wasn't there draped itself over sense, smelling faintly of sandalwood and sorrow.
Qin Mo's skin prickled. He did not open his eyes. He opened memory.
He listened for the step on his heart that was not a foot. He heard a quill scratch in a room with no walls. He raised his palm and traced a crude circle with his thumb in the air. Ugly line. Perfect anchor.
The net tugged, soft as breath, wanting to settle on him like a lover's shawl. He let it touch a hair, a memory of a hair. It clung. He breathed backward—Seven-Breath Reversal—and his breath went into the hair, into the net, through it, to the hand holding the brush far away.
There was a gasp. A dip of the brush. A blot on the page. Someone across worlds fumbled.
Qin rolled to his knees. He placed five pebbles around Ao Ling and drew lines that refused to be straight. The willow's leaves whispered, giving him a melody old women hum when they wash the dead. He hummed back—low, true.
The net lifted. Came down. Lifted. Settled—not on him, but on the pebble circle. It drank pebbles and grew bemused. The silver scent faded like the last rain of summer.
Qin opened his eyes. The sky looked the same. Inside, a door had refused a key. The key had noted the refusal.
Ao Ling snored, tiny and brave.