Wild Fairy

On the night of my grandma's funeral, the old man in the village stopped me and only said: "Before midnight, go to the back mountain temple and keep the lamp." The temple had been abandoned for many years. The idols were cracked and the altar tables were gathering dust. There was an old well behind the temple that should have been filled in long ago. It stands to reason that even if there is something in such a place where the incense has been cut off, it should have dispersed long ago. But before my grandma died, she left me ten rules: Incense should be lit before sunset. If someone calls out your name outside the door, answer at most. The light goes out and cannot be resumed immediately. The water in the well can only be respected, not drunk. I originally thought that watching this night was just to fulfill the wishes of the dead. It wasn't until the old locks on the temple door became hot, a mouthful of fruit was silently missing from the offerings, and a woman's strangled cough came from the well, that I understood one thing: Grandma didn't ask me to guard the temple. She is taking my life to renew the incense that the temple has long since extinguished. There are immortals in the mountains. But those who receive sacrifices may not necessarily want people to come back alive.