It was on his third day in Guiyang that Silas finally slept through the night.
Not because he had found answers, but because exhaustion had finally overwhelmed his anxiety. For the first two nights, he lay on his hotel bed, listening to the unfamiliar roar of traffic outside, clutching Jasper Locke's jade bracelet in his hand, counting his own heartbeat until dawn. On the third night, he gave up on sleep, walked out of the hotel, and stepped into Guiyang's night.
He had meant to head in the direction marked on Finn's map, but the city was larger, more complex, and more incomprehensible than he had imagined. The streets were not grid-like, but winding—like rivers, like root tendrils, like the veins of some plant he could not identify. Chinese characters on signs flickered under neon lights; he could not read a single one, except for the occasional character for "medicine"—a symbol he knew well, having seen it in Jasper's studio, on Finn's letter, and in some older, unreachable memory.
He followed the character for "medicine."
The herbal shop was hidden in a narrow alley. Its facade was small, but it stretched deep inside, like an elongated lung, breathing in a scent Silas had never known. It was not the alcohol smell of Western medicine, but something more complex and primal—the bitter tang of rhizomes, the cloying sweetness of flowers, the cold metallic tang of minerals, and something else he could not name, like aged wine or damp earth.
He stood at the door and took a deep breath. As a botanist, his nose was trained to distinguish the scents of three thousand orchids, to gauge soil pH, to smell the early signs of fungal infection. But the scent here was beyond his taxonomic system, like a language he had never learned, a code he could not decipher.
He stepped inside.
The shop was dim, lit only by a few yellow bulbs hanging from the ceiling, illuminating rows of drawers—hundreds of them, reaching from the floor to the ceiling, each labeled with Chinese characters. Silas could not read the words, but he recognized what peeked out from the drawers: angelica, astragalus, goji berries, ginseng, and other rhizomes, barks, flowers, and minerals he did not know but instinctively wanted to touch.
An old man sat behind the counter, weighing some powder with a small scale. His movements were slow and precise, as if performing a ritual. Silas approached and tried to speak through a translation app, but it had no signal—either the walls were too thick, or there was some interference he could not comprehend.
"Hello," he said. "I am a botanist. I study plants. These… these are fascinating."
The old man looked up at him. There was no surprise, no welcome in his eyes, only an ancient, unreadable scrutiny. He set down the scale and spoke a stream of words Silas could not understand, but from his tone, it was not a greeting—it was a rebuke.
"I don't understand," Silas said, holding up his hands to show he meant no harm. "I just want to look. To learn."
The old man stood and walked toward him, his steps light but carrying a strange weight. He pointed at Silas's hand, then at the drawer, then at the door. Silas realized his hand was resting on an open drawer, his fingers touching some dried rhizome—he did not know when he had reached in, driven by instinct, curiosity, the irrepressible urge of a botanist encountering an unknown species.
"I'm sorry," he said, pulling his hand back. "I didn't mean to…"
But the old man had already grabbed his wrist. The old man's hand was thin and dry, like an old tree branch, but surprisingly strong—so strong that Silas could not break free. He spoke again, his voice rising, faster, and Silas caught only one word—or thought he did: "thief."
"No," he said. "I'm not stealing. I'm a professor. From Harvard. I study plants…"
The old man did not listen, or did not believe him. He dragged Silas toward the door and pushed him onto the street. Silas tried to resist, but the old man's strength exceeded his expectations, or his own strength was weaker than he thought—jet lag, malnutrition, three weeks of sleeplessness, the weight of three million dollars.
He stumbled onto the street, crashing into a stall. A dark liquid splashed onto his suit, carrying the scent of medicine. A crowd gathered around, voices, laughter, accusations—he understood none of it, only felt his face burning, blood rushing to his head, a primal shame and anger he had not felt in a long time.
"I didn't steal," he said in English, knowing no one could understand, but unable to stop. "I just wanted to look. I just wanted to understand…"
The crowd grew, closing in. Some pointed at his suit, some at his face, some toward the shop. Silas felt an ancient, tribal judgment forming—he was the intruder, the one who did not know the rules, the blasphemer who had touched something sacred.
He thought of Jasper. Of her saying, "When the fog is thick, the road will appear on its own." There was no fog now, only a crowd, only accusations, only a world he could not understand, falling apart around him.
He thought of Finn. Of his warning, "Trust no one." But what he needed now was exactly someone's help—someone to translate, someone to explain, someone to pull him out of this nightmare.
He thought of his own words, "Whatever the cost." Was this the cost? A misunderstanding, a touch, a violence forming that he could not defend against?
"Enough."
The voice came from behind the crowd, young and calm, with an accent Silas could not place—not the old man's dialect, but something more modern, closer to English.
The crowd parted, making way. A young man stepped forward, in his twenties, wearing a hoodie and jeans, with a pair of limited-edition sneakers Silas recognized. He held a cup of milk tea, the straw between his teeth, and his other hand held up a phone, as if livestreaming or recording.
"Uncle Zhang," the young man said to the old man, in words Silas could not understand, but his tone was respectful and soothing. "This is a professor from abroad, studying herbal medicine. He doesn't know the rules, but he's not a bad person. I'll vouch for him."
The old man said something, still stern, but his voice softened.
"He touched the Qing Nang drawer," the young man translated quietly to Silas. "It's for veneration, not for sale. To touch it is an offense."
"I didn't know," Silas said. "I'm sorry. I really didn't know."
The young man translated this to the old man, adding more words Silas could not follow, with gestures, smiles, and a capacity for reconciliation with the world that Silas had long lost. The old man finally released Silas's wrist, but his eyes remained wary, as if watching a dangerous, untamed animal.
"He'll let you go," the young man said. "But you must buy something. As… how to say it? A peace offering."
"What should I buy?"
The young man turned to the old man to ask, then pointed to a drawer on the counter. "That one. 'Yuan Zhi'—Polygala tenuifolia. An herb. It's said to help people… not forget things."
Silas understood. It was a ritual, an exchange, an ancient social logic that turned him from an intruder into a guest. He nodded and pulled out his wallet, but the young man stopped him.
"Not money," he said. "A story. Why are you really here? Tell Uncle Zhang, and I'll translate for you."
Silas looked at the young man. His eyes were bright and young, but there was something familiar in them—curiosity, observation, the same hunger for truth that Silas shared as a professor, a researcher, a husband losing his wife.
"I came for my wife," he said, his voice soft but clear. "She is dying. ALS. A disease your medicine… your science… cannot cure. Someone told me there is a way here. In the mountains. In the mist. I don't believe it, but I have nothing else to believe."
The young man listened, not translating. He looked at Silas, into his eyes, at the bloodshot veins, at the despair, at the something that refused to die.
"So you touched the Qing Nang drawer," he said, "because of your wife?"
"Because of my wife," Silas said. "Because her mother was named that. Qing Nang. She died here thirty years ago. Or somewhere else. I don't know. I just know…"
He could not go on. Because the young man suddenly laughed—not a mocking laugh, but something more complex, heavier, like someone hearing an old joke and laughing not at the joke itself, but at the unspeakable sorrow within it.
"I'll translate for you," he said, turning to the old man and speaking, his voice long and fluid, with a rhythm and cadence Silas could not comprehend.
The old man listened, his expression shifting—from wariness, to surprise, to something Silas could not name, like resignation or pity. Finally, he walked to the counter, opened the "Yuan Zhi" drawer, took out a small packet of herbs wrapped in yellow paper, and handed it to Silas.
"He says," the young man translated, "'Take it. No charge. But remember, sometimes remembering is more bitter than forgetting.'"
Silas took the packet. The herbs were light, but carried a weight, something intangible being passed to him. He wanted to say thank you, but the young man had already turned back to the old man, speaking in that fast, fluid language to take his leave, with gestures, smiles, and that same capacity for reconciliation Silas had lost.
The crowd dispersed. Night fell over the alley again, the herb shop's lights went out, and only distant neon flickered. Silas stood on the street, clutching the herbs, his suit stained with medicine, his heart filled with something he could not name, something he had just experienced.
"My name is Chen Yuan," the young man said, tossing the milk tea into the trash. "I'm doing… how to say it? Fieldwork. Anthropology. And you?"
"Silas Reed. Botanist."
"Botanist," Chen Yuan repeated, as if savoring the word. "Looking for plants?"
"Looking for a way," Silas said. "To save my wife."
Chen Yuan looked at him for a long time. Then he pulled a leaf from his pocket—a ginkgo leaf, golden, identical to the ones on the tree outside Silas's window, but the symbols on its veins were different, more complex, more ancient.
"I know where you're going," he said. "Leigong Mountain. The secrets of Qing Nang. I'm heading there too, to gather herbs. Together?"
Silas looked at the leaf, at Chen Yuan, at this stranger who had just pulled him out of crisis. He thought of Jasper's warning: "Trust no one." He thought of Finn's trap. He thought of his own words, "Whatever the cost."
"Why help me?" he asked.
Chen Yuan smiled, put the leaf back in his pocket, and turned toward the end of the alley, where mist was gathering like a door opening.
"Because you carry the scent of an old friend," he said. "Maybe I owed you in a past life."
Silas followed him into the mist, into a language he did not understand, a world he did not know, a faith he could not grasp. But he clutched the herbs in his hand, the jade bracelet in his pocket, and in his chest, a faint hope had just been rekindled.
Behind him, the herb shop's light flickered back on. The old man stood in the doorway, watching his retreating figure, muttering a word Silas could not understand—not "thief," not "outsider," but another word, older, heavier, like a prophecy, or a farewell.