Three days and three nights passed in silence.
The alternation of day and night on this island was unnervingly fast. Daylight blazed like midsummer, yet when midnight came, snowflakes whirled through the air as if winter had taken the land.
The soldiers kept their posts outside the yard, taking turns on watch. They saw the morning glories on the bamboo fence bloom and wither, and the wild fruit baskets in the yard empty and refill, yet the child never appeared again. No sign of the so-called immortal.
Whispers began to spread. Some said the bamboo forest hid an empty island, and that child was nothing more than a wandering spirit. A few threw stones into the forest in secret, but the invisible barrier repelled them violently. The stones rebounded, striking their own foreheads until blood trickled down.
Nathaniel spoke no word. Each morning, he tidied his battle robe, bowed deeply to the closed bamboo gate, and then sat cross-legged on a stone, eyes shut, as if steadfastly waiting for someone to emerge.
On the evening of the third day, the last sliver of sunlight broke through the bamboo canopy, scattering mottled light across the ground—when the sound of soft footsteps echoed from the depths of the forest.
Every soldier tensed, hands gripping their weapons tight.
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