When I was seven, my parents sent me to a village deep in the mountains.
The village was called Yunqi Valley, surrounded by mountains and shrouded in mist all year round.
An old bamboo fence stood at the entrance to the village, overgrown with dead vines and dotted with little white flowers. Seventh Grandpa said the fence wasn't there to keep people out. It was there to keep out things that shouldn't come near.
The village had rules: Don't go outside after dark. If you hear someone call your name, don't answer. Don't pick the wild fruit on the back mountain.
I didn't know why. I only knew that from that day on, my parents never came back.
Years later, I finally crossed out of the valley, thinking I was free at last.
But I soon discovered that what had trapped me had never been the village.
It was myself.
