《Single-Eyed Mother's Nightly Asian Folktales》


 Chapter 1锛歍he Legendary Eight-Tailed Cat

    "In many different mythologies, cats play very important roles. It is said that long ago, cats ruled over humans. They were cunning, cruel, and extremely intelligent, treating humans as their slaves. This continued until the arrival of dogs, who drove the cats away and turned them from rulers into pets. Thus, dogs were revered by ancient people as their most important companions, while cats were believed to bring death."


    My mother narrated this story while helping my father prepare tea.


    "Do many myths involve cats? Are there any stories about cats in our Eastern culture?"


    I asked, glancing around in the glow of the oil lamp and noticing the cute little cat across the eaves that had gone out to prowl.


    "Of course! Today, I will tell you the story of an Eastern cat."


    my mother replied with a smile.


    "It is said that Buddha once proclaimed that any being with seven orifices could cultivate into an immortal. These seven orifices, in today''s terms, refer to living creatures. Naturally, cats are included. According to records, a cat in cultivation grows an additional tail every twenty years. When it reaches its ninth tail, it attains a certain level of enlightenment.


    However, growing the ninth tail is no easy feat. When a cat has eight tails, it receives a sign that it must fulfill a person''s wish. For each wish granted, the cat must sacrifice one of its tails. This creates an almost endless cycle. But the cat in my story was devoutly committed to this cycle. It always maintained eight tails, despite living for countless years and fulfilling many wishes. The cat once complained to Buddha, asking how it could ever attain enlightenment this way. Buddha only smiled and remained silent."


    my mother paused, adding a touch of mystery.


    "Actually, what I''ve told you is just a story passed down by my ancestors. The Eight-Tailed Cat doesn''t help just anyone. It only grants wish for the descendants of its first master. In my hometown, the legend of the Eight-Tailed Cat is well-known. Everyone hopes to encounter it, because if it chooses to help you, it can grant any wish, any wish at all."


    I looked at my mother, vaguely recalling that she had once mentioned a trip she and my father took to visit his relatives to discuss an inheritance. In a sudden burst of curiosity, I spun around to face my father. With wide eyes and a hint of disbelief, I asked,


    "Dad, did you ever come across this magical cat? Is that why you suddenly inherited the estate?"


    At that time, I didn''t fully understand what an inheritance entailed. I just thought that inheriting property would surely make us rich, as many TV dramas portrayed. I didn''t realize that the inheritance was actually a piece of family land left by my late grandfather, who had passed away many years ago. The land had been left to my father and his siblings to discuss how to handle.


    "Actually, we went to discuss how to manage a piece of abandoned orchard land left by your grandfather. We were figuring out how to deal with it."


    my father said quietly, sipping his tea. His tone left me feeling a bit embarrassed.


    "You remember these trivial details, yet you''re so careless about other matters."


    my mother said, looking at me with a mix of exasperation and affection.


    "Today, I want to tell you about the legend of the Eight-Tailed Cat. My hometown is a place rich in resources, but also plagued by mice. To combat this, people have been keeping cats in every household for as long as anyone can remember. Oddly, no one in our town keeps dogs or eats dog meat. Cats have been immensely beneficial to us. They protect our food supplies from being ruined by rodents and prevent the spread of disease. That''s why everyone holds cats in such high regard. Naturally, there are many legends about them."


    My mother continued, her voice flowing as she spoke.


    "The story I know was told to me by my great-uncle, who passed away last year. When he recounted it to me, he was still robust. Although nearly eighty, he had the appearance of someone much younger, with clear and precise speech. His eyes, however, were deeply sunken due to severe cataracts. He refused surgery, so he lived with it as best he could."


    my mother said, her voice tinged with sadness. She deeply understood the impact of losing vision, given her own experience with a single eye and the challenges of living with impaired sight.


    To set the scene for clarity, let''s transport ourselves back to the moment when my uncle was telling my mother the story...


    ------


    "I was just under ten years old that year, often exploring the hills behind our village with your grandfather. On lucky days, we''d manage to hunt small game. In those days, rural kids learned to fend for themselves early on. Of course, we knew about the wolves in the mountains, but we rarely ventured far��just to the mid-slope. Your grandfather was skilled at identifying wolf territories, knowing which areas were safe and which were not.


    There were old village legends about an eight-tailed cat. It was said that centuries ago, a young man from the village had raised this extraordinarily large cat, almost the size of a small dog. It was pure white, with a tail both thick and long. The villagers revered this cat, believing it might be a demon cat among its kind.


    After the young man passed away, the cat disappeared. Over time, sightings of the cat became legend, and the young man''s descendants rose to prominence in the village, becoming a well-known family. Everyone believed it was the cat demon''s blessing. However, the young man''s descendants never spoke of it, for it was believed that revealing such a story could shorten one''s life. But since I''ve lived long enough, I don''t mind sharing it with you."


    (At this point, my uncle chuckled warmly at my mother.)


    The day had started clear, but June weather can change in an instant. Even someone like me, who prided myself on weather-watching, was caught off guard.


    I hadn''t invited your grandfather along, as he was busy preparing to leave for school in the provincial city��he couldn''t indulge in the same wild adventures as me. So, I set off alone to forage for mushrooms or hunt for game. Before I could reach the mid-slope, a torrential downpour began��one of the heaviest I''d ever experienced. I sought shelter beneath a dense canopy of leaves.


    The sky was dark, and the air was heavy. I nearly forgot it was morning. Amid the storm and flashes of lightning, I faintly heard the howls of wolves. Normally, wolves wouldn''t venture out in such weather, but a second howl confirmed my fear.


    Before I could react, I saw four wolves surrounding me.


    I wasn''t new to wolves; I''d accompanied my father on hunts before, but this was different. This time, I might become their prey. Trembling, I couldn''t tell if it was fear or the cold rain affecting me.This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    The wolves were fully grown. Their fur was matted with rain, revealing their gaunt ribs. They looked starving. As I stood facing them, I knew wolves would study their prey patiently, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. I felt the dread of knowing that my throat could be ripped open at any second.


    Then, I saw them retreat, growling softly with a mix of menace and fear. I looked around and there it was.


    It was larger than I had imagined��almost the size of a small lion. Its fur was pure white, seemingly untouched by the rain. Its eyes were like two black onyx stones, glowing ominously. Most striking were its tails��eight of them, spreading out like a regal display.


    I recalled the village tales that said the eight-tailed cat appeared during unusual storms and sought out those who had a wish to fulfill.


    The wolves quickly fled, and the eight-tailed cat approached me. Standing before it, I felt insignificant, humbled by its beauty. But I was also eager to have it.


    (At this point, my uncle''s gaze softened, lost in the memory.)


    It flicked its tail, stretched lazily, and regarded me with a penetrating stare.


    I realized it was waiting for me to make a wish. Since our family was a descendant of the young man, I was both thrilled and anxious. I hadn''t thought of a wish, so I hesitantly asked,


    "Can I touch you?"


    It squinted its eyes without expression. By then, the rain had stopped, and the sun shone brightly. Its white fur became almost translucent in the sunlight. I believed it had agreed. With trembling hands, I reached out to touch the fur around its neck.


    In a lifetime, one touches many things��silk, satin, fine porcelain, or youthful skin. But the fur of the eight-tailed cat felt unlike anything I had touched before. It wasn''t messy like ordinary cat fur, nor as soft as the fox pelts people gave us. It was a unique sensation, soothing and almost enchanting. I felt like I could lie down and sleep on it forever.


    But the cat soon pulled away, perhaps disliking close contact. I knew it was still waiting for my wish. Its eight tails flicked restlessly. I wasn''t sure what to wish for, so I simply said,


    "Why don''t you come home with me? I''ll think of a wish and tell you later."


    The cat stared at me, and suddenly its entire body shimmered, almost blinding me with its radiance. When I could see again, a regular white cat with only one tail stood in its place.


    I recognized it as the eight-tailed cat, now transformed. Elated, I scooped it up and hurried home.


    From then on, I played with the cat every day.


    The village adults didn''t interfere with children and cats. I wasn''t keen on schooling like your father, and since we were well-off, I was allowed to indulge in my whims. However, at first, the cat seemed reluctant to play. It ignored my attempts to entertain it with paper balls or yarn, like an elder tolerating a child''s antics.


    I realized that such games were disrespectful to it.


    The cat often sat by the door, meowing or flicking its tail, indicating it wanted to leave and fulfill my wish to shed another tail and continue its endless cycle of training. I felt pity for it.


    One day, I asked,


    "Can any wish be granted?"


    It remained silent, gazing at me lazily.


    "Well, my wish is for you to grow nine tails."


    I said, my voice slow and deliberate, each word lingering in the quiet night.


    The cat froze, its sleek, black onyx eyes shimmering with a flicker of confusion before softening into a profound, unexpected gratitude. In that moment, the air around us seemed to shift��a silent understanding passed between us. This wish wasn''t a selfish demand, like the ones it had endured before. It was something deeper. It was recognition��a quiet reverence for the decades of sacrifice, discipline, and mastery embodied in each of its tails. No one had ever honored that journey before��until now.


    The cat rose slowly, with the grace of a creature who had lived through ages untold. It leaned toward me and gently licked my hand, its warm tongue leaving behind a sensation that lingered as if it carried the weight of an eternal blessing. Its eyes glistened��moist, almost tearful, as if the finality of this moment had touched it too.


    And then, in the soft moonlight that filtered through the thin bamboo trees surrounding my home, it happened.


    The once eight-tailed cat unfurled a ninth tail, shimmering with a divine brilliance. The tails rippled like silk caught in a slow, whispering breeze, their glow casting shifting patterns of light across the wooden porch and the surrounding earth.


    The air became warmer, charged with energy, and the faint scent of rain-soaked earth mixed with the lingering fragrance of incense from my mother''s evening prayers.


    Later, a village friend would claim he saw a radiant white light pouring out of my home, pulsing like a heartbeat and fading into the distance, as if the gods themselves had blessed the night.


    The cat turned, its nine tails trailing behind like glowing ribbons in the dark. It padded softly across the garden, each step muffled by the dew-soaked grass. The fireflies that had danced aimlessly in the shadows now gathered around it, as if drawn to its ethereal presence.


    I watched, entranced, as it slipped through the tall grass and into the dense forest beyond. The glow of its tails flickered, like fading embers, until all that remained was the quiet hum of cicadas and the distant rustle of leaves in the breeze.


    I sat there in the stillness, the night suddenly feeling heavier without its presence. A bittersweet ache pressed against my chest, a feeling I couldn''t quite name. I knew I would never see it again. But as the wind carried the faint scent of jasmine and the distant cry of an owl echoed through the trees, I realized something: it had left me with a story��a tale that would stay with me forever, just like the warmth of its final touch.


    But in the days that followed, it seemed to watch over me. My life, though unremarkable, was peaceful and happy. My children were dutiful, and I enjoyed good health. Perhaps it was all due to its blessing. Recently, I dream of it again. It told me it was coming to take me...


    That''s the story my uncle shared. At the time, I could only half-believe it. I knew there was a condition in medicine where the elderly might confuse memories, piecing together unrelated events. I wondered if my uncle was afflicted by such a condition.


    However, shortly before I left my hometown, he passed away peacefully, sleeping in his wicker chair. The family referred to it as a "happy death."


    At the funeral, as the eldest of my generation, I was the guardian of the vigil. Late into the night, after most had left and only a few remained��many having fallen asleep��I was unusually alert. The sudden shift from lively conversations to this somber occasion was jarring. In the quiet, I heard a cat''s meow. Unlike the eerie sounds of movies, it was gentle and filled with warmth.


    I saw it��no longer the eight-tailed, but now the nine-tailed cat!


    As my uncle described, it was breathtakingly beautiful, with its snowy fur and onyx eyes, and its nine tails trailing elegantly behind it.


    It walked directly to my uncle''s casket, ignoring my astonishment. I wanted to call out to others, but no words came.


    I watched as it padded silently toward the casket, its movements slow and deliberate, like a ritual only it understood. It lowered its head, gently licking my uncle''s hand, as if offering a final farewell. Then, without a sound, its form dissolved into the air��fading like a wisp of smoke carried away by an unseen breeze.


    Eventually, I found my voice but chose not to share this with anyone. Such stories were likely to invite ridicule, and discussing them during such a solemn occasion was taboo in our culture. After the funeral, I returned home, never to see the nine-tailed cat again. Its legend seemed to end with that night."


    ------


    The story reached a climax, and my excitement was palpable.


    "That''s an incredible cat."


    I declared, my voice tinged with wonder.


    My mother paused, her hands hovering over the teapot as she turned to face me. The oil lamp''s flickering light cast eerie shadows, deepening the mystery in her gaze. She stared at me with her one remaining eye, its depth and intensity almost otherworldly in the dim light. The night''s chill seeped through the room, adding to the aura of enchantment.


    "It is."


    she said softly, her voice carrying a hint of the supernatural.


    "But do you believe it?"


    In that moment, her single eye seemed to hold ancient secrets and untold wisdom. The room, bathed in the soft glow of the lamp and shrouded in darkness, felt like a portal to another realm. Yet, despite the mystique, I was entranced by the story and the night''s chill.


    "Absolutely. If anyone else told me this, I might doubt it. But coming from you, no matter how fantastical, I believe every word."


    My gaze was firm, reflecting my deep trust and belief.


    My mother''s lips curled into a gentle, knowing smile.


    "That''s all I need."


    she said, her voice a soothing whisper against the backdrop of the night. She gestured towards the house with a graceful sweep of her hand, signaling me to head inside and rest. The story had woven its final thread for the evening.


    I entered my room, the silence of the night amplifying the solitude of the space.


    Peering through the window, I saw the little cat once again return to the eaves of the house across the way.


    I watched it with a sense of wonder��could this be the legendary eight-tailed cat? If anyone were lucky enough to encounter such a being, they should remember to wish for its ninth tail, for those wandering the earthly realm are often lonely and in search of companionship. As I settled into bed, the night air carried the weight of the story and the mysteries it held, leaving me in a state of awe and contemplation.


    The evening''s magic lingered, blending seamlessly with the cool, crisp night......

 Chapter 2锛欰 Ritual of Return

    In my childhood, there were no smartphones, computers, or game consoles to provide electronic entertainment.


    For children in rural Asian villages, the ultimate joy was owning a bicycle.


    I often dreamed of having one, but as the saying goes, "A poor child grows up quickly." Our family wasn''t well-off, and despite my deep longing for a bicycle, I never dared to ask my parents for one.


    Whenever I was bored, I would sit idly at home, playing with the seven small stones my mother had gathered for me. These stones weren''t anything extraordinary, just common pebbles found along the village paths. Yet, these seven stones held a special significance��they were chosen by my mother. Each one, though varying in size, appeared as ordinary as any other stone, but they were smooth to the touch, perfectly rounded, and fit comfortably in my small hands.


    In the quiet moments of my childhood, these stones became my world. My fingers would trace their contours, feeling the cool, smooth surfaces that seemed to hold a bit of my mother''s care and love. Each stone, though seemingly mundane, carried a sense of mystery, as if they were part of a larger, unseen story.


    Speaking of why my mother gave me those seven small stones, it was because I always pestered her to play with me. Unable to do her chores with me underfoot, she found these seven stones and taught me a game she used to play alone as a child.


    This game, once beloved by village children, had likely faded into obscurity among city kids. The rules were simple: you hold all seven stones in your hands, toss them gently to the ground, then pick one up and toss it into the air. Before it falls, you must gather the remaining six stones from the ground.


    The game continues this way, accumulating points, until a mistake is made and it''s the other player''s turn. Typically, the game goes for ten rounds, with the highest total score determining the winner, though sometimes, when enthusiasm ran high, we''d play for dozens of rounds.


    This game required careful selection of stones, quick reflexes, and nimble fingers, making it an excellent way to sharpen a child''s reaction time. For children in resource-scarce villages, it was a perfect game.


    I had no friends to play with, so whenever my mother was busy with housework, I played alone. Strangely enough, despite her single eye, my mother could flawlessly perform the game''s moves whenever she played with me. Her actions were so fluid and graceful, leaving me in awe every time. When we played together, she would always win unless she intentionally let me score. If she was busy, she''d let me go first, and then, during her turn, she''d effortlessly win within five rounds, gently sending me off to play by myself.


    The sight of my mother, her solitary eye reflecting both love and a hint of something mystical, made the game feel more than just a pastime. Her movements were so precise, it seemed as if she was guided by an unseen force. Watching her, I felt a connection to something deeper, a sense of magic hidden within our everyday lives. Each stone, each toss, each catch held a fragment of that mystery, making the simple game a profound part of my childhood.


    One night, I woke up with an urgent need to use the toilet. The house was quiet, the only sound the gentle rustle of the wind against the wooden walls. I slipped out of bed, the cold floor sending shivers up my spine as I tiptoed towards the door.


    Our house was small, nestled in the heart of the village, and the toilet was an outhouse a short distance away. I stepped outside, the chill of the night air hitting me like a wave. The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. The village seemed to sleep, bathed in the eerie silver light.


    As I made my way to the outhouse, I heard a soft rustling behind me. I turned, my heart pounding, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Dismissing it as my imagination, I continued on. The night seemed to grow colder, the air thick with an unspoken tension.


    I finished my business and was about to head back when I saw it. Just beyond the outhouse, where the shadows of the trees mingled with the moonlight, stood a figure.


    It was tall and slender, almost translucent, as if made of mist.


    My breath caught in my throat, and I froze, unable to move.


    The figure seemed to shimmer, its form shifting subtly with the breeze. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized it was not entirely human. It had the outline of a person, but its features were indistinct, as if hidden behind a veil. No part of it was clear, and I couldn''t tell if it saw me as I saw it.


    I was rooted to the spot, a strange mix of fear and fascination washing over me. It was strange��at that precise moment, I couldn''t even remember how to scream.


    All I could think about was fleeing from that place and seeking refuge in my room.


    Without warning, the figure turned and glided away, seamlessly dissolving into the shadowy embrace of the trees. As if freed from an invisible spell, I snapped back to reality. My heart pounded furiously as I sprinted back to the house, each footfall echoing my mounting fear.


    I burst into my room, slamming the door shut behind me with a force that rattled the old wooden frame. The darkness of my room enveloped me as I scrambled into bed, yanking the covers over my head with frantic movements. The oppressive silence was broken only by my ragged breathing.


    Sleep remained a distant dream, eluding me as I lay there, cocooned in the safety of my bed. The encounter replayed in my mind, a haunting loop of the figure''s shifting, indistinct form.


    My pulse still raced, and a chill ran down my spine despite the warmth of the covers.


    I felt trapped between the need to flee and the helplessness of my own fear, a prisoner of the night''s unsettling mystery.


    By morning, I had developed a high fever. My mother, with her single, piercing eye that always seemed to see through me, tended to me with a worried frown. She placed a cool cloth on my forehead and whispered soothing words, but I could see the concern in her gaze.


    As I lay there, feverish and trembling, I recounted what I had seen. My mother listened silently, her expression unreadable. When I finished, she simply nodded and told me to rest. Her calm demeanor was comforting, yet her eye held a depth of understanding that made me wonder if she, too, had seen such things. As the fever burned through me, reality wavered between the haze of my delirium and the strange clarity of half-heard conversations. In my fevered state, I could barely distinguish between dreams and waking life. Through the fog of my discomfort, I could make out the dimly lit figures of my parents in the living room.


    My parents'' voices drifted through the room, their words a distant murmur in my fevered mind. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices low and soothing, but the content of their conversation was shrouded in the same mystery that enveloped my own fevered thoughts. I could hear the concern in their voices, a palpable tension that seemed to hang in the air like a heavy fog.


    In the quiet living room, the room was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the lamp casting long, dancing shadows that played across the wooden walls. The wind whispered through the gaps in the old windows, rustling the pages of a forgotten book resting on a side table. It was a peaceful, almost otherworldly scene, marred only by the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards and the faint buzz of insects.


    The conversation between my parents drifted through the air, mingling with the shadows cast by the flickering oil lamp. The room, bathed in the lamp''s warm glow, seemed to hold its breath as my father''s concerned voice broke the silence......


    "How''s Ph''ng''s fever?"


    My father''s voice was edged with worry, cutting through the night''s calm.


    My mother''s reply came in a gentle, yet strained tone.


    "No, it hasn''t gone down. When I touched his forehead, his temperature was still high. The fever hasn''t relented."


    Her voice carried a tremor, betraying her deep concern.


    The heavy wooden door was left ajar, a common practice in our small village where trust in neighbors was as natural as the changing seasons. The gentle night breeze swept through the open doorway, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into the very walls of the house. Despite the absence of fans or air conditioning, the air was cool and pleasantly refreshing, with only the occasional bug flitting about, drawn to the soft, flickering light of the oil lamp.


    The oil lamp''s light flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls as my father responded.


    "We should take him to Dr. Ralphi''s clinic again tomorrow morning. It''s been four days. Why hasn''t the fever broken?"


    A shadow of unease crossed my mother''s face as she shook her head slowly.


    "I think it''s unusual... Normally, the fever should have subsided by now."


    Her voice was tinged with frustration and helplessness.Stolen novel; please report.


    In the midst of this, my mother''s gaze seemed distant, her expression lost in a sea of unspoken fears. She whispered softly to herself, her words barely audible over the murmurs of the wind and the occasional buzz of insects around the lamp.


    "I will see what I can do..."


    The room''s atmosphere grew heavier with her whispered promise, as if the very air itself held the weight of her unspoken worries. The lamp''s light seemed to waver in response to her quiet resolution, the shadows elongating and shifting with each tremor of her voice. Outside, the wind rustled through the open doorway, carrying with it the chill of the night, mingling with the sense of uncertainty that hung thick in the air.


    The night pressed in around them, the soft rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the village creating a backdrop to their anxious conversation. Each word felt like it was cloaked in a shroud of mystique, the fever''s persistence a puzzle that defied simple solutions. The flickering lamp and the whispering wind wove together a tapestry of unease, as if the very night were conspiring to keep the answers hidden, leaving my parents to grapple with the enigmatic nature of my illness.


    The following day, a hazy light filtered through the window as I lay in a feverish haze, shivering under the blankets. The oppressive heat of my illness clung to me like a second skin, rendering me unable to move or speak. Through the dim veil of my fevered state, I watched as my mother prepared for a ritual that seemed to hold the promise of salvation.


    I barely registered her movements as she stepped out of the house, her silhouette merging with the morning mist.


    She walked with purpose, her steps deliberate and heavy, towards the small convenience store nearby. The narrow lanes were silent except for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional flutter of birds disturbed by her passage.


    In the store, she gathered her supplies with a quiet intensity��several sticks of incense, bundles of joss paper, and a few joss candles. Each item seemed to carry a weight of significance, like sacred instruments for an ancient rite.


    Upon her return, her demeanor was more focused than usual, her expression etched with a blend of determination and concern. She took one of my sets of clothes, carefully folding it as if handling something fragile and precious. Alongside it, she collected the seven stones she had found for me, each one meticulously placed in a small, worn pouch.


    The house felt different now, charged with an energy that was both calming and unsettling. My mother, usually so occupied with her daily chores, set aside her usual tasks. Instead, she busied herself with an intricate ritual, shaping the joss paper into small, delicate ingots.


    The room was filled with the soft rustling of paper and the faint aroma of incense. Her hands worked with practiced precision, folding and molding the paper into ingot shapes that seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow in the dim light.


    As dusk settled over the village, an unusual stillness hung in the air. The sky, streaked with twilight hues, seemed to draw closer to the earth, shrouding the landscape in an early nightfall that added to the day''s peculiar sense of foreboding. It was around 7:30 p.m., and the darkness came with an almost palpable weight, as if the day itself were holding its breath.


    "Stay inside the house. Don''t come out, and don''t look outside."


    my mother''s voice, soft yet firm, drifted through the walls. There was a gravity to her tone, a gentle insistence that brooked no argument.


    "Alright, I understand."


    my father replied, his voice carrying a note of unease that matched the strange atmosphere of the evening.


    My mother moved with a quiet determination, her silhouette outlined by the fading light. She gathered her preparations with a meticulous care that belied her calm exterior. A small, worn bag held the ingot-shaped joss paper, the joss candles, and the paper money. She also took the set of my old clothes and the seven stones she had carefully selected.


    With her bundle in hand, she ventured out into the encroaching darkness. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of earth and incense. The village, usually alive with the murmurs of evening life, was unusually silent, as if holding its collective breath.


    She walked to the spot where I had seen the mysterious figure the night before. The area was marked by the faint glow of the last traces of twilight, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and writhe as if alive. My mother knelt on the soft earth, her movements deliberate and graceful.


    In the dim light, she carefully inserted a joss candle into the ground. The candle''s slender form was a beacon of light against the encroaching dark. With practiced hands, she struck a match and lit the candle, its flame flickering to life with a soft, golden glow.


    The light seemed to breathe life into the shadows, casting a warm, gentle radiance that pushed back the darkness.


    She then began to arrange the other items with precise care. The ingot-shaped joss paper, meticulously folded and shimmering with a faint, almost otherworldly sheen, was placed in a neat row in front of the candle. Next, the paper money was spread out with equal deliberation, creating a small altar of sorts.


    My old clothes were laid out beside the joss paper, and the seven stones were positioned in a carefully chosen pattern around the candle.


    The scene was both serene and haunting. The soft glow of the candlelight danced across the carefully arranged items, creating an ethereal spectacle that seemed to bridge the gap between the mundane and the mystical. Shadows played upon the ground, their shapes fluid and mysterious, as if whispering secrets from another realm.


    My mother''s face was illuminated by the candle''s flickering light, her single eye reflecting the warm glow with a depth of emotion that spoke of ancient traditions and deep-seated beliefs. Her presence was both comforting and unsettling, as she moved with the grace of someone performing a sacred rite, a guardian of old rituals in a world that seemed to be holding its breath.


    As she completed the arrangement, she stepped back, her gaze fixed on the small altar she had created. The quiet was profound, a silence that seemed to vibrate with the weight of the ritual''s significance. The joss candle''s flame flickered steadily, casting a protective glow that seemed to ward off the encroaching darkness.


    The night had fully enveloped the village, but within that circle of light, there was a sense of calm and purpose. My mother''s ritual was a bridge between the known and the unknown, a desperate plea for protection and healing in the face of an incomprehensible mystery.


    My mother clutched my clothes to her chest, her face cast in a serene, almost otherworldly light as she whispered incantations with a voice that trembled with both hope and authority:


    "Fear not, even if the North''s chill sends shivers through your bones;


    Fear not, even if the East''s shadows loom large and menacing;


    Let not the South''s whispers of desolation deter you;


    Nor let the West''s darkness cloud your resolve;


    Be undaunted by the four directions and the five realms;


    By the riverbanks of the Wise Origin, where the Vajras stand firm on either side, Spirits from a thousand miles away, rush and enter the portal.


    On this day, month, and year;


    return Ph''ng, return Ph''ng, return Ph''ng, Return Ph''ng, return Ph''ng, return Ph''ng;


    and restore his spirit unto him!"


    With a measured, almost ceremonial grace, she knelt before the small altar she had created. Her single eye, glowing with an inner light, fixed on the spot where I had seen the figure the previous night.


    She grasped the seven stones, her movements deliberate and precise. With a powerful, sweeping motion, she hurled them towards the place, each stone cutting through the air with a force that spoke of both reverence and urgency.


    The stones landed with a soft thud, scattering across the ground in a pattern that seemed to resonate with the energy of the ritual.


    As the stones settled, my mother turned her attention to the joss paper and paper money. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across her face, her expression a blend of determination and calm. She set the joss paper and paper money alight, the flames licking up and consuming them with a crackling, almost hypnotic rhythm. The smoke rose in swirling patterns, carrying with it whispered prayers and ancient incantations that seemed to mingle with the night air.


    Once the flames had died down, she gathered the remnants and turned slowly back towards the house, her steps measured and deliberate. She carried my clothes with a reverent care, her single eye reflecting the dim light with an almost mystical intensity.


    Entering the house, she moved with a practiced efficiency. She placed the clothes beside me with gentle hands and, as I stirred from my restless sleep, she roused me with a soft touch. The coolness of the wet cloths she used to cleanse my body felt refreshing against my fevered skin. Her movements were tender and methodical, each action imbued with a sense of calm and purpose.


    With careful attention, she helped me change into the fresh clothes she had brought. Her touch was soothing, a balm to my discomfort and confusion. As she worked, her face remained focused and serene, her single eye revealing a depth of resolve and compassion. The ritual she had performed seemed to have imbued the room with a sense of tranquil energy, a protective barrier against the night''s lingering shadows.


    The transformation was almost tangible. As I settled into the clean clothes, a sense of warmth and relief began to wash over me, easing the feverish haze that had clouded my mind. My mother''s presence was a grounding force, a beacon of calm in the midst of the night''s surreal and unsettling events.


    The room, illuminated by the soft glow of the lingering candlelight, felt safe and cocooned from the darkness outside. The mystic air of the ritual lingered, wrapping around us like a protective shroud, and with each passing moment, the night seemed to recede, leaving behind a sense of renewed hope and quiet determination.


    The next morning, I woke up feeling revitalized, my fever completely vanished and my body brimming with energy. The sun''s rays filtered through the window, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. I leaped out of bed, excitement bubbling within me, and sprinted towards my mother, who was busy preparing breakfast in the kitchen.


    "Mom! What are we having today? Can I have a red bean flavor ice bar? I feel great and I don''t have a fever anymore!"


    I asked, my voice filled with eagerness.


    My mother looked up from her work, a warm, knowing smile spreading across her face. She reached out and gently placed her hand on my forehead, her touch cool and soothing against my skin. She scrutinized me with a blend of relief and affection before responding.


    "That''s wonderful to hear, Ph''ng. It seems like your fever has finally gone down. But let''s stick to porridge and healthy foods for a few more days before we celebrate with ice cream, alright?"


    I pouted slightly but understood.


    "Okay..."


    I said, nodding in agreement. I knew how much my parents had worried when I was ill and felt it was only right to take better care of myself.


    Later that evening, after my father returned from work, my mother served a steaming bowl of chicken porridge.


    The aroma was comforting, filling the house with a sense of homeliness and warmth. We sat together at the table, enjoying the meal and the simple pleasure of each other''s company.


    The evening was peaceful, with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of utensils forming a harmonious backdrop.


    As night fell, a tranquil calm settled over the house.


    I found myself walking outside to the toilet, the cool night air brushing against my skin. I glanced towards the spot where I had seen the figure, a sense of calm now replacing the earlier fear.


    The moon hung low in the sky, casting a gentle, silvery light that seemed to wash the world in a holy glow.


    The cool breeze felt like a comforting embrace, and the darkness was no longer menacing but rather peaceful and serene.


    The haunting image of the figure had faded from my memory, replaced by a soothing sense of safety and contentment.


    The night''s earlier unease had transformed into a comforting stillness, with only the moonlight and the gentle whispers of the wind guiding my steps. The house felt like a haven, its protective aura a testament to the strength of my mother''s love and the ancient rites she had performed.


    As I returned inside, I felt a deep sense of gratitude and tranquility.


    The experience had left me with a newfound appreciation for the simple, quiet moments of life, and the once-fleeting fear had been replaced by a profound sense of peace.