Chapter 1: The Place Where the Sand Halts
He was born between two worlds.
On one side, the sand drifted aimlessly; on the other, the grass grew soundlessly.
His parents did not know why they named him Wu Zhi. They simply said, "So that he does not know too much."
Since childhood, Wu Zhi remained silent longer than he spoke. He often stared at the sky for long periods, as if waiting for a word that would never arrive.
In the land where he stood, meaning had not yet arrived. But the silence had preceded it.
The First Morning He Remembered
Wu Zhi did not remember when he first opened his eyes. But he remembered the light.
The light came from the east, slowly cleaving the desert. The color of the sky shifted from gray to pale yellow, then pink, then a very thin blue. Wu Zhi did not know the names of those colors. He only knew: something was moving.
He sat in front of a small tent made of worn canvas. The wind blew softly, stirring the edge of his robe. The sand at his feet shifted slightly, then grew still again.
He did not know what to do.
His mother stepped out of the tent, carrying a clay bowl of water. She placed it beside Wu Zhi without speaking. Wu Zhi stared at the water. Its surface was still, reflecting the sky. He saw his own face there—faint, like a shadow not yet fully formed.
"Drink," his mother said.
Wu Zhi lifted the bowl. The water was cold. He drank it slowly, feeling the coolness descend into his stomach. When he was finished, he set the bowl back down.
His mother looked at him for a moment, then went back into the tent.
Wu Zhi continued to sit. He did not know where he was supposed to go.
The Line in the Earth
His father was the first to show him the line.
"Look," his father said, pointing to the ground.
Wu Zhi looked. There was a long line in the earth, like a trace of something that had passed. To the left of the line, the soil was dry, pale yellow, scattered with small stones and dust. To the right, the ground was slightly darker, with sparse, short grass growing.
"This is the boundary," his father said. "Over there, there is no water. Here, there is a little."
Wu Zhi did not understand what a "boundary" was. He only saw the line, then looked in both directions. The sand on the left moved when the wind blew. The grass on the right swayed slightly, but did not shift its place.
"Why is there a line?" Wu Zhi asked.
His father paused. Then he said, "I don't know. The earth decided on its own."
Wu Zhi stared at the line for a long time. He thought: if the earth can decide, can the earth also speak?
But the earth was silent. There was no answer.
The Boy Who Did Not Play
There were other children in that place. They lived in other tents, not far from Wu Zhi's. Sometimes they gathered near the small well, running, laughing, tossing stones into the air.
Wu Zhi often watched them from a distance. He never joined.
One day, a boy came up to him. The boy was taller than Wu Zhi, his skin darker, his hair short and tangled.
"Why don't you play?" the boy asked.
Wu Zhi looked at him. He did not know how to answer.
"Are you stupid?" the boy said again.
Wu Zhi shook his head slowly. But he also did not claim he was smart.
The boy laughed, then left. Wu Zhi remained seated where he was. He watched the children play, shout, and run. They were like the wind—moving without thinking.
Wu Zhi was not like that. He moved only if there was a reason. But he did not know what his reason was.
The Cold Night
Night arrived quickly. The sky changed from blue to dark purple, then black. Stars appeared one by one, like small holes in the heavens.
Wu Zhi sat outside the tent. The air was cold. He shivered a little, but did not go inside. He liked watching the stars.
His mother came out, bringing a thin blanket. She threw it over Wu Zhi's shoulders without a word, then went back inside.
Wu Zhi wrapped the blanket around himself. It was warm, but not enough to completely dispel the cold. He kept gazing at the sky.
The stars did not move. But he felt as though they were watching him.
He thought: are the stars as silent as I am?
No one answered. But he did not feel lonely.
The First Question
One morning, Wu Zhi asked his mother a question.
"What is a name?"
His mother was weaving cloth in front of the tent. Her hands moved swiftly, her fingers expertly pulling the threads. She did not stop when Wu Zhi asked.
"A name is the sound you are called by," his mother said.
"But why do I have a name?"
"So people know who you are."
Wu Zhi was quiet for a moment. Then he asked again, "If there are no people, do I still have a name?"
His mother stopped weaving. She looked at Wu Zhi with tired, yet gentle eyes.
"You ask too many questions," she said.
Wu Zhi did not ask again. But the question remained in his head.
If there were no people, would he still be Wu Zhi? Or would he simply be a body without a sound?
The Shifting Sand
His father took him for a walk into the desert one day.
"Don't go too far," his mother called from behind them.
His father did not answer. He just walked, and Wu Zhi followed him.
The sand was soft beneath their feet. Every step left a print, but the print disappeared after the wind blew. Wu Zhi watched his own tracks vanish, and he felt a strange sensation.
If a trace can disappear, did he ever truly exist?
They walked until there were no longer any tents behind them. Only sand, sky, and wind.
His father stopped. He knelt, took a handful of sand, then let it fall through his fingers. The sand flew a little before dropping to the ground.
"This sand has been here before we were born," his father said. "And it will remain after we die."
Wu Zhi stared at the sand. He did not understand what his father meant, but he felt something—something heavy, like a pressure on his chest.
"If the sand is always here, why aren't we?" Wu Zhi asked.
His father smiled faintly. But his smile was not happy.
"Because we move," he said. "The sand merely stays still."
Wu Zhi did not understand. But he did not ask again.
The Grass That Did Not Grow Tall
On the other side of the line, there was grass. But the grass was short, tough, and pale green. Not like the grass Wu Zhi saw in his dreams—tall, soft, swaying beautifully.
One day, he crouched in front of the grass. He touched it with his finger. The grass was sharp, pricking his skin slightly.
"Why don't you grow tall?" Wu Zhi whispered.
The grass did not answer. The wind blew, and the grass swayed a little. But there was no sound.
Wu Zhi sat there for a long time. He looked at the grass, looked at the soil beneath it, looked at the sky above it. Everything was silent.
He thought: perhaps the grass does not want to grow tall. Perhaps the grass is content as it is.
But he was not sure.
A Sound in the Night
That night, Wu Zhi heard a sound.
The sound came from far away, like the wind, but louder. Like something moving across the sand.
He stepped out of the tent. The sky was dark, there was no moon. The stars shone brightly.
The sound came again. Closer this time.
Wu Zhi stood still. His heart beat fast. He did not know what it was, but he felt afraid.
Then he saw it—a large shadow, moving slowly between the dunes. Its shape was indistinct. Like an animal, but larger than any he had ever seen.
The shadow stopped. It seemed to look at Wu Zhi.
Wu Zhi did not move. He only stared.
Then the shadow turned, and departed. Its sound faded slowly, until only the wind remained.
Wu Zhi went inside the tent. He lay on his thin mat, staring at the swaying tent roof. He did not sleep until morning.
The Unanswered Question
The next day, Wu Zhi asked his father.
"What is in the desert?"
His father was mending a tent rope. He did not look at Wu Zhi when he answered.
"Many things. Wind, stones, sand."
"Is there anything else?"
His father paused. Then he said, "There are things we do not need to know."
Wu Zhi looked at him. "Why?"
"Because knowing too much makes us afraid."
Wu Zhi did not ask again. But he knew: his father had also seen the shadow.
The Place Where the Sand Halts
A few days later, Wu Zhi walked alone to the line in the earth.
He stood right on the center of the line. One foot in the sand, one foot on the grass.
He felt strange—as if his body was divided in two. Half of him in the moving world, the other half in the silent world.
The wind blew. The sand shifted. The grass swayed.
Wu Zhi closed his eyes. He felt the wind on his face, felt the earth beneath his feet.
He did not know what it meant. But he felt it.
And for the first time, he thought: perhaps it does not need to have a meaning.
Perhaps it is enough just to feel.