My grandfather died behind the shadow-puppet stage, leaving behind nothing but a fragmentary manuscript stained with ink.
On the night we kept vigil, joyful music drifted from an empty house in Qingshi Alley, and a paper bride led a procession to our door. She handed the children in the alley a red invitation. It read: “Those who receive this invitation must take their seats.”
My left eye stung, and I saw the [Rules] floating in the air: “Those who leave their seats must wear the actor's skin.”
I tried to snatch the invitation by force. I tried to tear it up. Both led to certain death. The Soul-Continuation Scissors my grandfather taught me to use were the real solution: dress in red and take your seat, then use a stand-in to save someone else.
With one snip, I saved the neighbor's boy, but the manuscript turned to a new page by itself and revealed four words: “Craft Fragment: Soul-Calming.”
There was a red invitation at the door, its corner scorched. It read: “The next performance is missing a player. Shen Yan, your timing is perfect.”
My name is Shen Yan, the last guardian of folk customs in Yan County. The show isn't over, and I have no intention of leaving the stage.
