Shu Yan’s sleep was restless, fragments of memories slipping away each time she tried to hold onto them. The pale light filtering through her window felt cold as it touched her skin, carrying a strange awareness with it. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone—or something—had been watching her as she slept, its presence now lingering in the room’s shadows.


    As she descended the stairs, the quiet rhythms of the inn greeted her. Grandmother Lin was already busy in the small dining area, moving about with an ease that belied her years. She hummed a soft tune as she placed fresh tea on the counter, her eyes glinting when she saw Shu Yan approach.


    “Did you sleep well?” she asked, though her knowing expression suggested she already knew the answer.


    Shu Yan shook her head. “Not really. I kept having dreams, or maybe memories. They’re hard to grasp.” She hesitated, glancing toward the door. “And I thought I heard someone calling to me by the river.”


    A subtle smile touched Grandmother Lin’s lips as she handed Shu Yan a steaming cup of tea. “The river has its own language. Those who leave tend to forget it.” She looked out the window, her voice lowering. “But the fog has a way of bringing memories back.”


    Shu Yan sipped the tea, tasting faint floral notes mingled with something earthier. As the warmth spread through her chest, a sense of calm washed over her, loosening the tension in her shoulders. But there was something more—a gentle stirring in her mind, as if the tea itself awakened fragments of a memory she hadn’t known was buried.


    Suddenly, images flickered before her eyes: she saw herself as a child, standing by the river, her small hands holding a candle. Beside her, a boy’s face hovered, blurred and indistinct, his eyes gleaming in the flickering light as they whispered words she couldn’t hear. The memory faded quickly, leaving behind an ache she couldn’t name.


    “You may find that some memories are clearer in the fog,” Grandmother Lin murmured, her words carrying a weight Shu Yan felt but couldn’t fully understand.


    Shu Yan set the cup down, the memory lingering like the aftertaste of the tea. “I think I need to go to the river.”


    Grandmother Lin nodded, her eyes soft with a hint of sadness. “The river waits for you, Shu Yan. You will remember when the time is right.”


    Following the Fog


    Outside, the fog still clung to the village, thick and silent, giving the world a softened, dreamlike quality. Shu Yan walked through the haze, her footsteps muted on the damp earth as she made her way to the riverbank. The familiar surroundings seemed distant, like an echo of the place she’d known as a child.


    As she reached the river, she felt a peculiar pull, her heartbeat syncing with the gentle ebb of the water. The fog seemed to thicken around her, forming shifting shapes that hovered at the edge of her vision. Each time she tried to focus on them, they faded, leaving only faint traces, like the lingering scent of smoke.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    The river stretched before her, its surface as smooth as glass, reflecting the misty sky. Just as she was about to turn away, a voice spoke from behind her, low and clear.


    “You’ve come back to seek what was left behind.”


    Shu Yan turned quickly, her pulse quickening. A man stood a few feet away, his robes simple yet dignified, his posture both calm and imposing. His face was worn by years of sun and wind, but his eyes held a quiet strength that made her feel as though he could see through her, down to her very soul.


    “Do I know you?” she asked, though something in her felt that she did.


    The man inclined his head. “I am Aowen, a humble traveler and friend to this village,” he replied. “And yes, Shu Yan, we met long ago, when you were very young.”


    Shu Yan’s heart beat faster. “You knew me as a child?”


    Aowen’s gaze drifted to the river, his expression contemplative. “Memories are like rivers—flowing, shifting, yet always connected to their source. Yours are beginning to flow again.”


    She opened her mouth to speak, but he raised a hand, gesturing toward the river.


    “Tell me, Shu Yan,” he continued, his voice soft but unwavering, “do you remember the altar?”


    “The altar…” She repeated the words, and suddenly, an image rose in her mind: a small, ancient stone structure hidden among trees near the riverbank. She remembered playing near it as a child, though the memory was hazy, like a half-forgotten dream.


    Aowen gave a slight nod, as though he could see the memory forming. “It lies hidden, forgotten by many. But it has always waited for you, as the river has. Visit it, and you may find what you seek.”


    His words sent a chill through her, and she felt a mix of apprehension and curiosity. “Why are you telling me this?”


    A faint smile touched his lips. “Because the river remembers you, and so do I. It is time you remembered, Shu Yan.”


    With that, he turned and walked away, his figure slowly fading into the mist. Shu Yan watched him go, questions swirling in her mind. She glanced back at the river, half-expecting to see the ghostly figure from her dreams, but the water remained calm, reflecting only the faint outline of the trees.


    The Forgotten Altar


    Her steps were tentative as she followed the path along the river. The fog seemed to guide her, thickening in certain areas, creating a pathway that led to a small clearing. There, half-hidden by vines and moss, stood the altar—small, weathered, as if waiting for her.


    She knelt by the stone, brushing away leaves and debris, her fingers trailing over its cool, rough surface. A sudden chill ran through her, and the world around her seemed to still. As her fingers traced the carvings, another memory bloomed to life.


    In her mind’s eye, she was a child again, kneeling at this very altar, her hands clasped as if in prayer. Beside her was the boy from her vision, his face partially hidden in shadow, holding a candle that flickered in the night. She could hear their voices, faint whispers, speaking a vow she couldn’t recall. The memory felt ancient, weighted, as if it belonged to a part of herself she had long buried.


    The memory faded, and she blinked, feeling disoriented. A faint chill settled over her, and she could have sworn she heard a whisper—a voice from the fog, soft yet insistent.


    “Remember…”


    The word shivered through her, sinking deep into her thoughts, filling her with a strange longing and dread. She touched the altar one last time, feeling its cold solidity under her fingers, a reminder of something real and ancient.


    As she walked back to the village, the fog began to lift, the outlines of rooftops and trees reemerging from the mist. Yet even as she reentered the warmth of the inn, the memory of the boy and the candle, the whispers, and the sense of something long-forgotten weighed on her heart.


    By the time she lay down that night, one truth was clear: whatever she had left behind all those years ago was stirring, calling her back to the mysteries she had tried to forget. And in the quiet, with only the faint sounds of the village outside, she heard it again.


    “Remember…”


    The word lingered in her mind as she drifted to sleep, her resolve firming within her. She would uncover the truth. She would remember—no matter what it cost.