I Run a Homestay in Datong

Laid off at thirty-two, I followed my girlfriend back to Datong's ancient city wall to turn an old house into a guesthouse. The day we tore down a wall, we dug a stone tablet out of the cellar, inscribed with the name of Faguo, a Northern Wei monk. After tying imperial power to Buddhism, Faguo vanished without a trace. That night, metallic knocks came from the cellar. The next morning, new marks had appeared on the wall. No one had gone down there. Uncle Liu, who had kept watch next door for forty years, said there wasn't just a tablet beneath this courtyard, but a passage. Before the first guest disappeared, they left behind two words: “Run now.” But Cui Ling said she wasn't leaving. So neither was I.