Zhai Zhongren

Behind the dilapidated wooden door, the candle flickered restlessly. Cries, whispers, and long-drawn tunes lingered on the beams, like singing hymns or calling for something. The incense thickened into a gray mist, and people prostrated themselves on the ground, taking out their thoughts and offering sacrifices to those who could not see them first. Deep in the smoke, the wooden body sat upright, its face already blurred - something was rustling on the beam, neither urgent nor slow.