The mist had deepened into a suffocating shroud by the time Anze lifted the unconscious woman. She was lighter than he expected, a tangle of limbs and damp, expensive fabric against his chest. Her head lolled against his shoulder, pale face slack, breathing shallow but steady. The jade piece, cool and unnervingly familiar, he'd carefully pried from her clenched fingers and slipped into his own pocket, a secret weight burning against his thigh. Moving with the surefooted silence ingrained by years navigating far more treacherous terrain, he retraced his path down the slope, his bundle of forgotten herbs lying like an offering to the mountain spirits near the stunted pine. The village below was swallowed by the grey-white void, only the occasional muffled clang of a pot or the distant bleat of a goat hinting at life. He carried her through the deserted alleys, the wet stone echoing faintly under his boots, past shuttered windows and closed doors. The only witness was the thick, swirling mist itself.
He shouldered open the heavy wooden door of Mòfáng, the warmth and familiar scents of coffee grounds, woodsmoke, and dried herbs enveloping them like a sigh. He laid her gently on the long, cushioned bench usually reserved for napping elders, near the still-warm stove. Her city clothes – the deep blue fleece, the tough hiking trousers – looked alien against the worn, hand-dyed fabrics of the café. The news travelled faster than sound in Yúnzhī Cūn. Before Anze could even drape a rough woolen blanket over her, the door creaked open again, and figures materialized out of the gloom: Granny Wen, leaning heavily on Little Yan's arm but her clouded eyes sharp with concern; Auntie Mei, wiping her hands on her apron, strands of dyed wool clinging to her sleeves; Village Head Chen, his expression grimly practical; Widow Luo peering anxiously from behind him. They crowded into the small space, the air thick with unspoken questions and damp wool.
"Found her," Anze said simply, his voice cutting through the tense silence. He was already moving towards a locked cabinet tucked beneath the counter. "Up near the high ridge. Fell, maybe. Unconscious, but breathing." He produced a sturdy, olive-green metal case emblazoned with a faded red cross – military issue, well-stocked. The villagers watched, a mixture of awe and unease on their faces, as this quiet man they knew as coffee brewer and path-mender transformed into something else entirely. His movements were swift, economical, devoid of wasted energy. He checked her pupils with a small penlight, felt her skull for bumps with practiced fingers, palpated her limbs for breaks. He cleaned a nasty scrape on her temple with antiseptic wipes that smelled sharply clinical, his touch impersonal, efficient. He found a possible sprain in her left ankle, carefully palpating the swelling before expertly wrapping it in a compression bandage. He hooked a small pulse oximeter to her finger, its soft green glow a tiny beacon in the dim café. Throughout, his face remained impassive, a mask of focused calm, though his mind raced – the jade, the stranger, the broken peace.
"She's stable," he announced finally, stripping off the disposable gloves. "No major breaks, no head injury signs beyond the knock that likely put her out. Shock, exposure, maybe dehydration. Needs warmth, rest, fluids." He met Granny Wen's gaze. The old woman had shuffled closer, her head tilted, not looking at the patient, but seemingly *listening* to her, sensing the tangled flow of her qi. Wen gave a slow, almost imperceptible nod. "The mountain spared her," she rasped. "For now."
The pronouncement eased the collective tension in the room. Practicalities took over. Auntie Mei bustled off to fetch hot water and clean cloths. Head Chen organized the space, shooing the curious Widow Luo gently but firmly towards the door with instructions to spread the word that all was under control. Little Yan hovered near Anze, her eyes wide, absorbing every detail of the medical kit, the efficient movements, the quiet authority he radiated. "Can I help, Shīfu?"
Anze considered. "Make tea. Strong, black, lots of sugar. When she wakes, she'll need it." He then turned to the practicalities of feeding the gathered villagers. The unexpected drama hadn't erased the need for supper. "We'll eat here. Simple." He moved towards the small kitchen area tucked behind the counter. Little Yan, eager to be useful, scrambled after him. Together, in the familiar rhythm of their daily routine, they worked. Anze pulled out a large pot, filled it with water from the kettle, and began chopping mountain potatoes and wild onions with swift precision. Little Yan washed greens gathered that morning, her small hands working diligently. Anze added dried mushrooms, a chunk of smoked pork from their dwindling supplies, and a generous pinch of salt. The simple aromas of cooking – earthy, savory, comforting – began to fill the café, layering over the lingering scent of antiseptic and damp stranger.
As the stew simmered, filling the space with warmth and promise, Anze mixed flour, water, and a pinch of salt, kneading it briefly before tearing off pieces and flattening them into rough discs. He tossed them onto a hot, greased griddle positioned over the stove's embers. Little Yan watched, then mimicked him, her smaller pancakes slightly lopsided but earnest. The mundane act of preparing food, the sizzle of dough hitting hot metal, the soft clatter of bowls being set out on the communal table, worked its own kind of magic. The initial shock surrounding the unconscious woman softened into a low hum of concerned chatter. Granny Wen settled into her usual spot, accepting a bowl of stew from Auntie Mei. Uncle Bo appeared, drawn by the smell, and silently began whittling near the fire. Head Chen sat at the table, spooning stew, his brow furrowed not just with village worries now, but with the puzzle of the woman on the bench.
The stew was hearty and warm, the flatbread chewy and satisfying. Conversation, initially hushed, gradually returned to familiar channels – the state of the terraced fields after the rain, Auntie Mei's progress on a complex new Cloud-Weave pattern, the worrying persistence of the county survey notices Chen had received. Anze moved quietly between the table and the stove, refilling bowls, checking the griddle, his gaze flickering periodically towards the still figure on the bench. The pulse oximeter glowed steadily green. Her color seemed less deathly pale in the warm firelight. Little Yan, emboldened by the return to normalcy, even dared to leave a small bowl of stew and a piece of flatbread covered near the woman's head, "in case she wakes hungry."
It was Uncle Bo, surprisingly, who broke the lingering solemnity after the meal. He finished his stew, wiped his bowl clean with the last scrap of bread, and stood up. Without a word, he walked out into the misty evening. Minutes later, he returned, arms laden with dry kindling and a few larger logs. He walked past the café, towards the small, open area near the Ancestral Hall, the traditional heart of the village. The message was clear. Little Yan was the first to leap up. "Bonfire!" she exclaimed, the earlier tension dissolving into childish excitement. Auntie Mei smiled, gathering empty bowls. "A little light to chase away the damp," she agreed. Head Chen nodded, pushing back his stool. Even Granny Wen allowed herself to be helped up by Mei. "Fire cleanses," she murmured.
Anze stayed behind only long enough to bank the stove fire safely and ensure the woman on the bench was still stable, covered warmly. The jade piece felt like a live coal in his pocket. He joined the others outside. Uncle Bo had worked quickly. A sturdy pyramid of dry pine kindling and branches was already crackling merrily in the center of the stone-paved area, casting dancing orange light that fought valiantly against the clinging mist, pushing it back into a glowing halo. Villagers emerged from their homes, drawn by the light and the promise of warmth and community. Blankets were spread on stones, stools carried out. Da Chun appeared, carrying a battered, two-stringed *erhu*. Someone else produced a simple bamboo flute.
The fire grew, its heat palpable on faces chilled by the damp air. Sparks spiraled upwards, vanishing into the grey ceiling. The crackle and hiss of the burning wood was the first music. Then Da Chun tucked the *erhu* under his chin, drew the bow across the strings, and a thin, reedy melody, plaintive and ancient, wound its way through the crackling flames. The flute joined in, a higher, clearer counterpoint. It wasn't a song with a name, not really, just a collection of notes that spoke of mountains, mist, endurance. Auntie Mei began to hum, then softly sing, her voice surprisingly strong and clear, weaving words about cloud-weavers and hidden valleys. Others joined in, tentatively at first, then with more confidence, their voices blending in the cool night air, a sound as natural as the wind in the pines. Little Yan grabbed Widow Luo's hands, pulling her into a simple, shuffling dance near the fire's edge, their shadows leaping wildly on the stone walls of the Ancestral Hall. Someone produced a set of painted wooden dice, and a game involving sticks and pebbles began in another circle, punctuated by bursts of laughter. The mist seemed to respect the circle of light and warmth, holding its damp breath just beyond the fire's reach.
Anze stood slightly apart, near the edge of the light, leaning against the cool stone wall of his café. He watched the scene – the firelit faces, the simple joy, the shared warmth pushing back the isolation of the mountains. He saw Head Chen actually smile as he lost a round of the stick game. He saw Granny Wen's head nodding slightly to the rhythm of the *erhu*, a ghost of contentment on her weathered face. He saw Little Yan's unrestrained glee. This was Yúnzhī Cūn's strength, its quiet resistance against the world's indifference. He was part of it, The Bridge, yet he felt the weight of the jade in his pocket like an anchor, tethering him to the unconscious stranger inside and the questions she brought. He slipped back inside briefly, under the pretext of fetching more wood, though the pile outside was ample. He checked her pulse again – stronger now. Her eyelids fluttered faintly, but didn't open.
He returned to the bonfire, accepting a cup of hot, sweet tea from Auntie Mei. He stood again in the shadows, sipping the comforting brew, letting the music and the firelight wash over him, his senses still attuned to the café door behind him. The singing shifted to a livelier tune, a harvesting song. More villagers joined the dancing, a loose, shuffling circle forming around the flames, their movements amplified and distorted by the flickering light. The mist swirled, gold-edged in the fire's glow.
It was during a slightly breathless pause between songs, as Da Chun tuned a protesting string on the *erhu*, that Anze sensed it. A subtle shift in the air behind him. A presence in the café doorway. He didn't turn immediately. He finished his tea, set the cup down on a nearby stone, and only then slowly turned his head.
She stood there, framed by the dark rectangle of the café door. The blanket Anze had draped over her was wrapped tightly around her shoulders like a shawl, dwarfing her. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, her face still pale and smudged with dirt, but her eyes… her eyes were open. Wide, dark, and utterly bewildered. They darted from the roaring bonfire to the ring of dancing, laughing villagers, to the musician with his strange instrument, to the groups playing games, to the towering, mist-shrouded darkness pressing in beyond the circle of light. She looked like someone who'd woken up on another planet. She took an unsteady step forward, wincing slightly as her wrapped ankle touched the cold stone, her gaze sweeping the scene again, taking in the ancient stone houses, the unfamiliar faces lit by firelight, the sheer, improbable reality of this hidden gathering high in the clouds. She seemed frozen, caught between the warmth of the fire and the darkness she'd emerged from.
Anze moved then, not towards her directly, but towards the small table he'd set up near the café entrance earlier, holding a thermos and some cups. He picked up a cup, poured steaming liquid from the thermos – not tea, but the strong, sweet coffee from the café. He didn't look at her as he spoke, his voice calm, pitched to carry just to her over the crackle of the fire and the soft murmur of the villagers who were now noticing her, their activities slowing, faces turning towards the doorway with cautious curiosity.
"Feeling steadier?" he asked, his gaze still on the dark liquid filling the cup. He finally lifted his head, meeting her wide, disoriented eyes across the few paces that separated them. The firelight caught the planes of his face, the calm watchfulness in his dark eyes, the faded scar near his brow. "The mountain gave you quite a welcome."