For three generations, the Yan family had been paper effigy makers, bound by four ironclad rules: Never write a real name. Never depict a real face. Never make an effigy in the likeness of a living person. Never make one in the form of a child or teenager.
At seventy, Yan Shouyi had lived cautiously all his life. Yet one snowy night, he made a paper effigy for Chen Xi, a boy who had died young. It was indistinguishable from the real boy, and he wrote down his true name.
From that moment on, the Yan family's fortune was severed.
As they moved a grave, black mud clung to the bottom of the coffin, and the old man spoke a prophecy that came true: The Yan family would fall apart.
The eldest son's only child died suddenly, and his wife left.
The second son's wife died unexpectedly, leaving him to raise their young daughter alone.
The third son never married, cutting off the family line to ward off disaster.
The paper spirit meant no harm. It only wanted a family.
And the Yan family repaid the debt of one paper effigy with three generations of joy and sorrow.
