JADE AND STATIC SIGNALS

The warmth of the ceramic cup seeped into Xu Linxue's cold fingers, a startling anchor in the whirlpool of her disorientation. She stared at the dark liquid – coffee, surprisingly strong and fragrant – then back at the man who had offered it. He stood a respectful distance away, his face half in shadow, half illuminated by the leaping bonfire light. His eyes, dark and watchful, held no threat, only a calm, assessing patience. The aroma of the coffee, rich and familiar amidst the woodsmoke and damp earth smells, grounded her slightly. She took a tentative sip. It was hot, bitter, edged with a surprising sweetness. Real. This was real. The fire, the strange music now fading into whispers, the ring of faces watching her with open curiosity but not hostility, the towering darkness pressing in beyond the circle of light – none of it made sense. She swallowed the coffee, the heat spreading down her throat, lending her a sliver of courage. Her voice, when it came, was rough, barely audible over the crackle of the flames. "Where... where am I? What is happening?"

The man didn't move closer, respecting the space she seemed to need. "You're in Yúnzhī Cūn," he said, his voice low and steady, carrying easily to her. "Cloud-Weaver Village. My name is Anze Li. I found you unconscious on the mountainside earlier this evening, near the high ridge." He gestured vaguely upwards, into the mist-shrouded darkness. "You had a nasty knock to the head, possibly a sprained ankle. We brought you here, to my café, Mòfáng. We cleaned you up, made sure you were stable. You've been out for a few hours." He paused, letting the simple facts settle. "The villagers... they were worried. The mountain paths are treacherous, especially after rain. We don't often get visitors." He nodded towards the bonfire, where the music had stopped entirely now, replaced by a hushed, collective attention focused on the doorway. "They're just... glad you're awake."

Xu Linxue absorbed this, her gaze flickering from Anze's calm face to the firelit tableau beyond him. Cloud-Weaver Village. The name sounded like something from a forgotten folktale. The air was cool and damp, smelling of pine and smoke and wet stone – utterly unlike the exhaust-choked, humid air of Shanghai. The buildings were ancient stone and dark wood, the people dressed in simple, sturdy clothes that looked handmade. The incongruity of the steaming coffee cup in her hand, the faint scent of antiseptic clinging to her bandaged temple, the steady, professional way this Anze Li had spoken about her injuries… it all collided violently with the primal, almost medieval scene before her. Panic, cold and sharp, began to prickle beneath her skin. "My phone," she blurted out, her free hand patting frantically at her pockets. She found it, miraculously intact, tucked into the pocket of her fleece jacket which she realized was draped neatly over the back of a nearby chair. She fumbled it out, her fingers trembling as she pressed the power button. The screen lit up, showing a sliver of battery life and, crucially, the stark symbol of an empty signal bar in the top corner. No network. No data. Nothing. "No signal," she whispered, a fresh wave of disorientation washing over her. "Why is there no signal?" She held the phone up, waving it slightly as if trying to catch an invisible thread, her eyes wide with dawning alarm. "I need to call someone. I need… I need to know where I *am*."

Anze watched her panic with quiet understanding. "You won't get a signal here," he said, his tone matter-of-fact, not unkind. "The mountains block everything. We're deep in the folds. Too far from any tower." He saw the despair flicker in her eyes, the fear of being truly cut off. "But," he continued, tilting his head slightly towards the dark doorway of the café behind her, "I have a satellite link. For the café. Very slow, but it works. WiFi. You can connect to it. Send a message. Let someone know you're safe."

Relief, sharp and immediate, flooded Xu Linxue's face. "WiFi? Here?" It seemed impossible, yet another jarring note of modernity in this ancient place. She clutched her phone tighter. "Yes. Please. I need… I just need to tell my editor I'm okay. And my friend, Li Na. She'll be frantic." The thought of Li Na pacing her Shanghai apartment, imagining the worst, spurred her on.

Anze nodded. "Come inside. It's warmer." He stepped back, gesturing for her to enter the café first. She hesitated for only a second, glancing once more at the silent, watching villagers gathered around the fire. Their expressions were unreadable in the flickering light – concern, curiosity, perhaps a touch of wariness. She wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulders, feeling exposed, and turned, limping slightly on her wrapped ankle, back into the welcoming warmth of Mòfáng. Anze followed, closing the heavy wooden door softly, muffling the sounds of the night and the bonfire. The café felt like a sanctuary now, lit only by a single oil lamp on the counter and the soft glow emanating from a small, modern-looking router tucked on a shelf behind it, its tiny green and blue lights blinking rhythmically like electronic fireflies.

Anze moved behind the counter, his movements efficient. He pulled out an old tablet, tapped the screen awake, and navigated through a few menus. "The network is called 'Silent Room Guest'," he said, not looking up. "No password." He set the tablet down, facing her.

Xu Linxue sank onto the cushioned bench where she'd lain unconscious, her ankle throbbing dully. She pulled out her phone again, fingers flying as she navigated to the WiFi settings. Sure enough, amidst the emptiness, one network name appeared: *Silent Room Guest*. She tapped it. The connection icon spun for a agonizing few seconds, then settled. Connected. The meagre single bar of signal strength felt like a lifeline thrown across impossible distances. She opened her messaging app, her thumbs trembling as she typed.

>*Editor Zhao: Had an accident. Fell hiking. Minor injuries. Safe in a remote village called Yúnzhī Cūn. No precise location yet. Phone dying, signal terrible. Will update when possible. Deeply sorry for delay.*

>

>*Li Na: I'm okay! Took a tumble hiking. Banged my head, twisted ankle. Found by villagers in a place called Cloud Weaver Village (Yúnzhī Cūn). Safe, warm, being looked after. Signal is almost nonexistent. Battery low. Don't worry. Will explain more when I can. Love you.*

She hit send on both, watching the little sending icons spin with excruciating slowness. The satellite link lived up to its billing – painfully slow. But eventually, both messages showed as delivered. A profound wave of exhaustion, mixed with relief, washed over her. The immediate, clawing fear of being utterly lost subsided. She leaned back against the wall, closing her eyes for a moment, the phone clutched loosely in her hand. "Thank you," she breathed, the words thick with emotion. "Thank you, Anze Li."

"You're welcome," he replied simply. He had busied himself refilling the kettle from a large ceramic jug and setting it on the still-warm stove. The quiet sounds – the scrape of the kettle, the hiss as it began to heat – were comforting in the stillness. He leaned back against the counter, arms folded loosely across his chest, the charcoal grey of his hoodie blending with the shadows. The oil lamp cast soft highlights on the planes of his face, emphasizing the faded scar near his eyebrow, the quiet intensity in his dark eyes. "You said you were hiking?" His question was gentle, an invitation rather than an interrogation.

Xu Linxue opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. The simple act of sending the messages, the warmth of the café, the presence of this calm, capable man, allowed the panic to recede further, leaving room for the surreal reality to settle. "Yes," she said, her voice steadier now. "My name is Xu Linxue. I'm a photographer. Freelance, mostly, but I was on assignment." She took another sip of the cooling coffee, gathering her thoughts. "I specialize in wildlife, particularly endangered species in remote regions. My current project…" A flicker of the old passion lit her eyes, momentarily chasing away the confusion. "I was tracking reports – rumours, really – of the Blue Mountain Pheasant. It was declared extinct decades ago, but there have been whispers… blurry trail cam footage from loggers deep in these mountains years ago, old hunters' tales. My editor thought it was a long shot, but…" She shrugged, a gesture that spoke of countless such improbable quests. "I wanted to try. To document it, if it existed. To prove something beautiful hadn't just… vanished." Her voice softened with the weight of the hope she'd carried into these peaks.

She gestured vaguely towards the door, towards the unseen mountains. "I'd been out for three days, following old game trails, setting up cameras in promising spots. Yesterday afternoon… I thought I saw something. A flash of iridescent blue through the trees, higher up on a particularly steep ridge. I got excited, maybe careless. The mist rolled in so fast, thick as soup. One minute I was scrambling up a rock face, the next…" She frowned, touching her bandaged temple gingerly. "I must have slipped. I remember the sound of falling rock, a blinding pain… then nothing. Until…" She looked around the café, the warmth, the safety, the utter strangeness of it. "Until I woke up here. On that bench." She looked down at her phone, the screen dark now to conserve the precious sliver of battery. "My equipment bag… my cameras… they must still be up there somewhere." A pang of loss struck her, not just for the expensive gear, but for the potential images, the proof she might have been on the verge of capturing.

Anze listened intently, his expression thoughtful. The Blue Mountain Pheasant. He'd heard the name in Granny Wen's stories, fragments of old legends about a bird as blue as mountain mist, a spirit creature rarely seen. He hadn't known it was considered extinct. Her passion, even bruised and disoriented, was palpable. "The mountains hide many things," he said quietly. "Sometimes for a reason. The paths can be deceptive, especially alone, especially in the mist." There was no judgment in his tone, only a statement of fact born of deep familiarity with the terrain's treachery.

He pushed himself off the counter and picked up the now-steaming kettle. He refilled her coffee cup, then poured hot water into a small, dark-glazed teapot he took from a shelf, adding loose leaves from a simple wooden box. The fragrance of mountain herbs bloomed in the air – mint, something earthy, something floral. "This village," he began, setting the teapot and a fresh cup on the small table beside her bench, "is Yúnzhī Cūn. Cloud-Weaver Village. It's… old. Very old. Founded by people who wanted to disappear, generations ago. They learned to live with the mist, to spin cloth that felt like it was woven from clouds." He gestured around the café. "This is Mòfáng. The Silent Room. My café. My home now." He poured the pale golden herbal tea into the cup and offered it to her. "I grew up here. The village raised me. I left for a long time…" A shadow, brief but deep, crossed his face. "…but I came back a year ago. I help where I can. Fix things. Build things. Like the hidden road that brings supplies." He didn't mention the satellite link, the military-grade first aid kit, the watchfulness that never quite left his eyes. "People here call me 'Qiáoliáng'. The Bridge." He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug, as if the title was both responsibility and description. "Because I try to connect things. The old ways and the necessary new. The village and the world outside, but only on our terms."

Xu Linxue listened, sipping the herbal tea. It was fragrant, soothing, unlike anything she'd ever tasted. His words painted a picture of profound isolation and deep-rooted community. A hidden village. A bridge. It explained the lack of signal, the sense of stepping back in time, the wary curiosity of the villagers. Yet, it didn't explain the jade. The memory of the cool stone, the carved character, surfaced through the haze of her thoughts. She reached instinctively for her neck, but her fingers found only skin. Her pendant was gone. A flicker of panic returned. "My… my necklace," she started, her voice tight.

Anze met her gaze. He didn't pretend not to understand. Slowly, deliberately, he reached into the pocket of his hoodie. He pulled out the small piece of pale green jade, the single character **安 (Ān)** clear even in the dim lamplight. He held it out on his palm, not offering it yet, just showing it to her. "You were holding this," he said, his voice very quiet. "When I found you. Clutched tight in your hand."

Xu Linxue stared at it, a complex wave of emotions washing over her – relief at seeing it, confusion, and a dawning, unsettling realization. He recognized it. She saw it in his eyes. The calm watchfulness held a new depth, a shared question. "It… it was mine," she whispered. "From… from the orphanage. The only thing they had when I was left there." She looked from the jade in his hand to his face, the scar near his brow, the quiet strength, the name *Anze* – **安泽 (Ān Zé)**. The character for peace, for safety. The same character carved into her stone. The mist outside the café windows seemed to press closer, thick with unspoken history, as the silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft hiss of the stove and the distant crackle of the bonfire where the Cloud-Weavers watched over their hidden world.