MOUNTAIN ASCENT AND MORNING SIGNALS

The rhythmic clatter of the train wheels over tracks became a lullaby in the dimly lit carriage. Outside the window, the world was a blur of darkness punctuated by occasional clusters of distant lights – villages clinging to hillsides, lonely factories glowing like embers in the night. Yan, curled sideways on the plush seat, her head resting against Anze's arm, had succumbed to sleep an hour out of Shanghai, her breathing deep and even, the frantic energy of the city day finally drained. Anze sat upright, using the small overhead light to methodically sort through the paper bags at his feet. The gifts from Shanghai: a box of delicate almond cookies from the Golden Dragon for Granny Wen (soft enough for her few remaining teeth); a set of fine, durable sewing needles embedded in a magnetic case for Auntie Mei; a sleek, multi-tool pocket knife for Uncle Bo to replace the one he'd worn down to a nub; a thick, illustrated book on modern agricultural techniques for Da Chun; a vibrant silk scarf in swirling blues and greens for Teacher Lin; and for Little Yan, already dreaming beside him, a set of high-quality colored pencils and a bound sketchbook far superior to her worn notebook. He repacked them carefully, ensuring nothing would crush. The simple act of selecting these things, of thinking of each villager's need and quiet joy, felt like laying stones on the path back to Yúnzhī Cūn. He switched off the light, the carriage plunging into near darkness save for the safety lights along the floor. Leaning his head back against the cool glass, the exhaustion of the city, the hospital vigil, the emotional whirlwind, and the sheer physicality of the descent days before finally washed over him. The gentle rocking of the train, Yan's steady warmth against his side, and the knowledge of the mountains waiting lulled him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

He woke with a start, blinking in the sudden brightness as the train's overhead lights flickered on. A tinny voice announced their arrival at the valley terminus in heavily accented Mandarin. Outside, the platform was nearly deserted, bathed in the harsh, yellow glow of sodium lamps that cast long, distorted shadows. The air that rushed in when the doors hissed open was cool, damp, and thick with the scent of pine and damp earth – a welcome shock after the train's recycled atmosphere. Yan slept on, undisturbed by the noise. Anze gently shifted her, sliding his arms under her knees and back, lifting her with practiced ease. She murmured softly, nestling her head against his shoulder without waking, a dead weight of trust and exhaustion. He gathered the bags of gifts and their small packs in his other hand, the load substantial but manageable, and stepped out onto the quiet platform. The train doors closed behind him with a final sigh, and the engine rumbled away, leaving profound silence in its wake.

Headlights cut through the gloom near the station entrance. Trader Zhang's battered van idled, the engine ticking softly. Zhang himself scrambled out as soon as he saw Anze's silhouette emerge from the platform lights, carrying the sleeping girl. "Li Lǎobǎn! Over here!" He rushed forward, his face concerned in the dim light. "Give me those, give me those!" He efficiently relieved Anze of the luggage and gift bags, stacking them hastily in the back of the van. He peered at Yan, her face peaceful against Anze's shoulder. "Poor mite. Tuckered right out. And you… carrying her and all that up the Thread Path *now*? In the dark? It's past midnight! Are you sure? You could stay at my sister's hut down the road… wait for first light?"

Anze adjusted Yan's weight, settling her more securely. The mountain air was sharp in his lungs, clearing the last cobwebs of sleep. "No. Best to go now. She needs her own bed. The village will be waiting." His voice was calm, decisive. The path was treacherous at night, yes, but he knew its every twist, every loose stone, every root that could snag a boot. The darkness was an old companion. "Drive us to the trailhead, Zhang. Quickly."

The drive along the valley road was swift and silent, the van's headlights carving tunnels through the absolute blackness pressing in from the forested slopes. Zhang didn't chatter this time, sensing the focused energy radiating from Anze. He pulled over at the familiar, unmarked spot where the dirt track ended and the true ascent began – the invisible mouth of the Thread Path. Zhang helped unload the bags, his expression still worried. "Be careful, Li Lǎobǎn. The mist rolls thick up there at night. And the rocks… they get slick."

"I know," Anze said, hefting the packs and gift bags onto his back and over one shoulder, distributing the weight. Yan remained cradled in his other arm, her head lolling against his chest. "Thank you, Zhang. For everything. The tickets, the ride." He turned, his powerful headlamp clicking on, its bright beam cutting a swath through the inky darkness, illuminating the first steep, rocky steps of the path. "Go get some rest."

Then he began to climb. The first hour was the hardest, muscles protesting the sudden, steep ascent after the train's inertia. Yan's weight, though slight, was constant, requiring careful balance. The bags shifted, threatening to pull him off-kilter on narrow ledges. The headlamp beam was his world – a circle of wet rock, gnarled roots like skeletal fingers, sheer drops yawning just beyond the light's edge. The mist Zhang warned about materialized halfway up, a thick, clammy blanket that swallowed sound and reduced visibility to mere feet. It beaded on his jacket, on Yan's hair, cold and silent. He moved with agonizing slowness, every step deliberate, testing footholds, using his free hand to grip rocks or branches for leverage. His breathing grew labored, a rhythmic counterpoint to the silence. Sweat soaked through his shirt beneath the layers despite the cool air. Memories flickered – carrying wounded comrades through Afghan passes, the weight different but the relentless demand on body and will the same. This weight, however, was life, not brokenness. It was Yan's trust, the village's future sleeping in his arms. He adjusted her gently when she stirred, murmuring nonsense words before settling back into deep sleep. He stopped only once, bracing himself against a massive boulder, sipping tepid water from a bottle in his pack, the mist swirling around him like a living thing. The silence was absolute, profound, broken only by his own breath and the distant, muffled rush of the river far below. It was a world away from Shanghai's roar, from hospital corridors, from restaurant warmth. This was elemental. This was home.

Six hours. Six hours of relentless upward struggle, of muscles screaming, of concentration stretched wire-tight. The sky was beginning to lighten imperceptibly, the dense black softening to charcoal grey, when the path finally leveled out. The oppressive mist thinned, revealing the familiar, shadowed outlines of the first village houses clinging to the mountainside, dark shapes against the pre-dawn gloom. The scent of woodsmoke and damp earth was stronger here. Anze's legs trembled with fatigue, his shoulders ached as if molten lead filled them, but a fierce sense of accomplishment washed over him. He'd brought her home. He navigated the silent alleyways, his boots making soft scuffs on the wet stone, past shuttered windows and sleeping doors. He pushed open the unlocked door of Mòfáng with his shoulder, the familiar scents of coffee grounds and dried herbs welcoming him into the dark café. Without turning on lights, guided by memory, he carried Yan through to the back hallway and into her small room. He laid her gently on her bed, pulling the woven blanket up over her shoulders. She sighed, curling onto her side, deep in the sleep of the truly safe. He stood for a moment, watching her, the weight of the climb, the journey, the emotional toll of the past days crashing over him in a wave.

Staggering with exhaustion, he made it to his own small room off the kitchen. He didn't bother undressing beyond kicking off his muddy boots. He collapsed onto his narrow bed, the rough wool blanket scratchy against his cheek. Sleep claimed him instantly, a black, bottomless pit of oblivion.

* * *

Dawn painted the mist outside the café windows with streaks of pale gold and rose when Anze awoke. The deep, restorative sleep had erased the worst edge of exhaustion, though a profound tiredness lingered in his bones. The village was already awake – he heard the distant *clack-clack-clack* of Auntie Mei's loom, the crow of a rooster, the murmur of voices near the well. Routine was the anchor. He rose, splashed cold water on his face from the basin in the corner, pulled on a clean, rough-woven shirt, and laced his boots. He moved through the familiar motions of opening Mòfáng: unbolting the heavy door, stirring the ashes in the stove and adding kindling, filling the large iron kettle from the water jug. The rhythm soothed him. As the fire caught and the kettle began its low song, he did something new. He retrieved the sleek smartphone from the inner pocket of the jacket he'd discarded last night. It had lain dormant since the valley station, useless in the mountain void. He plugged it into a portable solar charger he kept for emergencies, placing it on the counter near the stove where the weak morning light might catch it later. Old habits warred with new connections.

* * *

Xu Línxuě woke in her Shanghai apartment to the insistent buzz of her alarm. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, painting stripes on the polished wood floor. The city's familiar symphony of traffic and distant construction was already building. She stretched, wincing slightly as her braced ankle protested. Her first thought, even before coffee, was of the mountains. Last night, after arriving home from the station, she'd sent a message to Anze on WeChat: *Hope the journey back started smoothly. Thinking of you both on the train.* The app had shown a single, frustrating grey tick – sent, but not delivered. No signal, of course. He was already swallowed by the peaks. She'd tried not to worry, picturing them on the train, Yan asleep, Anze vigilant. But the memory of the Thread Path, seen only in daylight descent, haunted her. Now, in the morning light, the undelivered message still glared on her screen. A knot of anxiety tightened in her stomach. What if something had happened? The climb in the dark, carrying Yan… She quickly typed another message, her fingers flying over the screen.

> **Xu Línxuě:** Anze? Morning. Just checking in. Did you and Yan make it back safely? My message last night didn't go through. Hope the climb wasn't too terrible in the dark. Let me know when you can.

She hit send, watching the screen. One grey tick. *Sent.* She carried her phone with her to the kitchen, setting it on the counter as she made coffee, glancing at it constantly. The silence felt loud. She showered, dressed in comfortable but professional trousers and a soft blouse, her mind replaying the image of Anze carrying the sleeping girl into the Shanghai night. She was just applying a touch of lip balm, her work bag slung over her shoulder, ready to head out, when her phone, lying on the entryway table, lit up with a soft *buzz-buzz-buzz*. Not a message notification – an incoming WeChat call.

Her heart leapt. She snatched it up. **Ān Zé** flashed on the screen. She swiped to answer, bringing the phone to her ear. "Anze?"

His voice came through, clear but carrying the faint rasp of fatigue and the unique acoustic of the mountains – a slight echo, the background utterly silent save for the distant cry of a bird. "Xu Línxuě. Sorry for the silence. We're back. Safe." A pause. She could almost see him leaning against the café counter, the morning mist outside the window. "The climb… it took longer. Six hours. Carrying Yan. She slept the whole way, on my shoulder. Like a sack of rice, but warmer." A dry note entered his voice. "Put her straight to bed. I did the same. Dead to the world until dawn. Just plugged the phone in now, saw your messages."

Relief flooded through Xu, warm and sweet. She leaned against her door. "Six hours? Carrying her? Anze, that's… incredible. And insane. Are *you* okay? You must be exhausted."

"Tired," he admitted. "But it's a good tired. The village kind. Kettle's singing. Mòfáng's open. Routine helps." She heard the faint clink of ceramic in the background – him pouring tea, perhaps. "How's the ankle? Survived the city tour?"

"Survived, thanks to the brace and Li Na playing drill sergeant. Sore, but manageable. Doctor's orders are rest and elevation, which my office chair sadly lacks." She paused. "And Yan? Did she wake up bewildered in her own bed?"

A soft sound, almost a chuckle, came down the line. "Like nothing happened. Bounced out of bed an hour ago, chattering about giant fireflies and demanding breakfast. Currently trying to draw the Shanghai Tower on Auntie Mei's loom instructions." His tone shifted, quieter. "Thank you, Xu. For yesterday. For showing her… showing us… the city's heart. It meant more than I can say."

Xu smiled, warmth spreading through her. "It meant a lot to me too. Seeing it through fresh eyes… and through yours." She hesitated, then added softly, "The offer stands, you know. Anytime. For quiet. Or dumplings that aren't bark soup."

She heard the faintest intake of breath on the other end. "The bridge remembers the way," he said, his voice low and resonant. "And the mist hides many paths. We'll see." It wasn't a promise, but it wasn't a closed door. "You're heading to work?"

"Just about to walk out the door," Xu confirmed, grabbing her keys. "Back to the world of spreadsheets and arguing about postmodern interpretations of basket weaving."

"Endurance and hidden depths," Anze replied, a thread of amusement in his voice. "Even in baskets. Walk carefully. Watch the ankle."

"You too. Don't let Yan convince you to rebuild the café on top of the Shanghai Tower. Enjoy the quiet." She paused, a sudden reluctance to end the call. "Talk soon?"

"Talk soon," Anze confirmed. "The phone… it might stay out of the bag now. Sometimes."

The simple statement felt significant. "I'm glad. Goodbye, Anze."

"Goodbye, Xu Línxuě."

She ended the call, holding the phone for a moment, the warmth of his voice lingering. The image of him in his misty café, the phone now charging on the counter, Yan chattering nearby, filled her with a quiet joy. The city seemed brighter as she stepped outside, the thrum of traffic less abrasive. She hailed a cab, texting Li Na a quick update: *They made it! Anze carried Yan up the mountain in the dark for SIX HOURS. Legend. At work soon.*

The cab wove through the morning rush. Xu watched the city flow past, the towering buildings now holding a different association – not just steel and glass, but the memory of Yan's awestruck face, Anze's contemplative gaze across the river. Her phone buzzed again – a text this time.

> **Ān Zé:** Granny Wen just tried to use the almond cookies as poultice for her knee. Crisis averted. Village life resumes.

Xu laughed out loud, earning a curious glance from the driver. She typed back, the exchange continuing easily, comfortably, as the cab navigated towards her office district – snippets about Yan's drawings, the village's reaction to the gifts, Xu describing the absurdity of her commute. The conversation flowed naturally, a seamless thread connecting mountain mist and city steel, until the cab pulled up outside a sleek, modern building housing her publishing house.

> **Xu Línxuě:** Just arrived at the office jungle. Duty calls. Tell Yan her firefly tower drawing better not be on official loom plans!

> **Ān Zé:** Will inspect. Survive the baskets.

> **Xu Línxuě:** *Smile emoji* Always. Talk later.

She slipped the phone into her bag, the glow of the connection warming her against the office AC's chill. Pushing through the glass doors into the bright, bustling lobby, the familiar sounds of ringing phones, clicking keyboards, and murmured conversations enveloped her. Before she could reach the elevators, a small crowd near the reception area turned – her team. Li Na was at the forefront, but there were others: her editor, Zhao, looking uncharacteristically relieved; Mark from layout, holding a ridiculous 'Welcome Back from the Wild!' banner; and half a dozen colleagues, their faces a mix of concern and curiosity.

Editor Zhao stepped forward, adjusting his glasses. "Xu. Good to see you in one piece. We got your preliminary pheasant notes… intriguing, truly. But more importantly," he lowered his voice slightly, "rumors reached us about soldiers saluting in hospital corridors? And a vanishing mountain village?" His eyes held a mixture of professional interest and sheer bafflement.

Mark waved the banner. "Did you find Bigfoot? Please say you found Bigfoot!"

Laughter rippled through the group. Xu smiled, leaning slightly on her cane, feeling the comforting absurdity of her two worlds colliding. "No Bigfoot, Mark," she said, her voice carrying easily in the lobby. "But I found something rarer. Peace. Perseverance. And the best mushroom flatbread on the planet." She met Li Na's knowing gaze, then looked back at her expectant colleagues. "Grab some coffee. It's a long story. And it involves a bridge, a Little Warrior, and a man who carries mountains." The familiar chaos of her city life closed around her, but the quiet strength of the mist-shrouded peaks, and the man who guarded them, felt closer than ever before.