"Water—please, water..." A cough tore through the small voice. Cold spit tasted of metal and river mud. "Hold still," an eight-year-old boy said. He set a bowl under her lips and tipped it. Water sloshed down the front of her robe. The room smelled of incense and yesterday's rice. "Who are you?" he asked, eyes wide. "You answered when I called. You said 'water.' But—" "I'm Mu Yunchu." The name fell out of her like a stone. Her tongue felt too big in a child's mouth. The boy blinked. "Mu Yunchu? But—you're Mu Yuncheng." "No." Her voice came smaller than she wanted. "I'm Mu Yunchu." "You look like Mu Yuncheng." He shoved his chin out, frowning as if proving a point could fix everything. "Why are you calling yourself Mu Yunchu? Mu Yunchu is dead." "I'm not dead." Saying it felt like laying a hand on a wound. The room held only two, the thin mat, a wooden chest, and the warm dark where the paper window let light through. Outside someone hammered a tray. Footsteps went by and left. "Dead?" The boy's face lost shape. "Third Uncle said—" "Third Uncle said a lot." She pushed herself up. Her knees complained like old hinges. She knew the sound: bones younger than the voice. She touched her face. Small fingers, a smear of soot on the cheek. She tested a wrist. The skin was smooth, the pulse quick. The memory