The wind howled through the Valley of Ten Thousand Blossoms, carrying the scent of peach petals and the faint hum of a forgotten melody. Beneath a sky bruised with twilight, a single lantern floated above the mist, its crimson glow pulsing like a heartbeat. It was no ordinary lantern—its paper was woven from the threads of a star's dying light, and its flame was said to burn as long as a soul's regret lingered in the mortal realm.
Mei-Ling knelt at the edge of the Jade Whisper River, her fingers tracing the worn edges of her mother's jade pendant. The pendant was her only inheritance, a relic etched with the sigil of the Wu family—a coiled dragon swallowing its own tail, a symbol of eternity and sacrifice. At sixteen, Mei-Ling was no stranger to loss, but tonight, the weight of it pressed harder. The Lantern Festival was approaching, and with it, the Night of Shattered Veils, when the boundary between the living and the dead grew thin. It was said that those who lit a lantern with true intent could summon a spirit—or banish one.
"Mei-Ling," called a voice, sharp as a blade's edge. Old Man Zhao hobbled toward her, his bamboo staff tapping against the riverbank's stones. His face, lined like cracked porcelain, betrayed a flicker of unease. "You shouldn't be here. Not tonight. The river spirits are restless."
Mei-Ling rose, tucking the pendant beneath her robe. "The spirits don't scare me, Uncle Zhao. They're just stories."
"Stories?" Zhao's eyes narrowed, catching the lantern's glow. "That light above the river isn't a story. It's a warning. The Wu family's debts aren't paid so easily."
Mei-Ling's chest tightened. The Wu family. Her mother had spoken of their lineage in whispers, tales of celestial pacts and broken oaths. Once, the Wu were guardians of the Celestial Loom, a divine artifact that wove the fates of mortals and gods alike. But centuries ago, the Loom was stolen, and the Wu fell into disgrace, their name cursed by both heaven and earth. Mei-Ling had grown up in the shadow of that shame, her mother's death five years prior only deepening the mystery.
"I don't owe the heavens anything," Mei-Ling said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "If the spirits want me, let them come."
Zhao shook his head, muttering a prayer to the Jade Emperor. "Foolish girl. The lantern above the river hasn't appeared in a hundred years. It's tied to your bloodline. Ignore it, and you'll bring ruin to us all."
Mei-Ling glanced at the lantern, its light flickering as if beckoning her. She had heard the tales: the Lantern of Eternal Regret, lit by the first Wu ancestor to atone for betraying the gods. It was said to appear only when the Celestial Loom stirred, its threads pulling at the fabric of destiny. But those were myths, weren't they? Her mother had taught her to question such tales, to seek truth in the world's quiet corners.
Yet the lantern's glow felt alive, whispering her name.
As Zhao shuffled back toward the village, Mei-Ling lingered by the river. The water reflected the stars, each ripple a fleeting glimpse of another world. She reached into her sleeve and pulled out a small bamboo flute, its lacquered surface etched with plum blossoms. Her mother had played it on moonless nights, coaxing melodies that seemed to soothe even the wind. Mei-Ling brought it to her lips and played a single note, soft and mournful. The lantern above the river flared brighter, and the air grew heavy, as if the sky itself held its breath.
A shadow moved in the mist. Not a man, not a beast, but something between—a figure cloaked in robes of midnight blue, its face obscured by a mask of white jade. The mask was featureless save for two slits where eyes should have been, yet Mei-Ling felt its gaze pierce her soul.
"You play the song of the lost," the figure said, its voice like the rustle of dry leaves. "Do you seek the Loom, child of Wu?"
Mei-Ling lowered the flute, her heart pounding. "Who are you?"
"I am a weaver of threads, a keeper of debts. You may call me the Masked Scribe." The figure stepped closer, its robes trailing mist. "The Celestial Loom stirs once more, and your blood calls to it. But beware—its threads are not kind to those who pull without care."
Mei-Ling's grip tightened on the flute. "I don't want your riddles. If you know something about my family, speak plainly."
The Masked Scribe tilted its head, as if amused. "Plainly? Very well. Your mother stole a thread from the Loom before she died. That thread binds you to a fate you cannot escape. The lantern above the river is yours to claim—or to destroy. Choose wisely, Mei-Ling, for the gods are watching, and they are not as forgiving as your mother believed."
Before Mei-Ling could respond, the figure dissolved into the mist, leaving only the echo of its words. The lantern's glow pulsed faster, and the river began to churn, its waters rising as if stirred by an unseen hand. Mei-Ling stumbled back, her mind racing. Her mother, a thief? The Celestial Loom, real? It was too much, yet the lantern's light tugged at her, a thread of fate she could not ignore.
As the first stars of the Night of Shattered Veils pierced the sky, Mei-Ling made her choice. She stepped into the river, the cold biting her skin, and reached for the lantern. Its flame burned brighter, and for a moment, she saw her mother's face in its glow—smiling, sorrowful, and impossibly far away.