In my childhood, there were no smartphones, computers, or game consoles to provide electronic entertainment.

For children in rural Asian villages, the ultimate joy was owning a bicycle.

I often dreamed of having one, but as the saying goes, "A poor child grows up quickly." Our family wasn't well-off, and despite my deep longing for a bicycle, I never dared to ask my parents for one.

Whenever I was bored, I would sit idly at home, playing with the seven small stones my mother had gathered for me. These stones weren't anything extraordinary, just common pebbles found along the village paths. Yet, these seven stones held a special significance—they were chosen by my mother. Each one, though varying in size, appeared as ordinary as any other stone, but they were smooth to the touch, perfectly rounded, and fit comfortably in my small hands.

In the quiet moments of my childhood, these stones became my world. My fingers would trace their contours, feeling the cool, smooth surfaces that seemed to hold a bit of my mother's care and love. Each stone, though seemingly mundane, carried a sense of mystery, as if they were part of a larger, unseen story.

Speaking of why my mother gave me those seven small stones, it was because I always pestered her to play with me. Unable to do her chores with me underfoot, she found these seven stones and taught me a game she used to play alone as a child.

This game, once beloved by village children, had likely faded into obscurity among city kids. The rules were simple: you hold all seven stones in your hands, toss them gently to the ground, then pick one up and toss it into the air. Before it falls, you must gather the remaining six stones from the ground.

The game continues this way, accumulating points, until a mistake is made and it's the other player's turn. Typically, the game goes for ten rounds, with the highest total score determining the winner, though sometimes, when enthusiasm ran high, we'd play for dozens of rounds.

This game required careful selection of stones, quick reflexes, and nimble fingers, making it an excellent way to sharpen a child's reaction time. For children in resource-scarce villages, it was a perfect game.

I had no friends to play with, so whenever my mother was busy with housework, I played alone. Strangely enough, despite her single eye, my mother could flawlessly perform the game's moves whenever she played with me. Her actions were so fluid and graceful, leaving me in awe every time. When we played together, she would always win unless she intentionally let me score. If she was busy, she'd let me go first, and then, during her turn, she'd effortlessly win within five rounds, gently sending me off to play by myself.

The sight of my mother, her solitary eye reflecting both love and a hint of something mystical, made the game feel more than just a pastime. Her movements were so precise, it seemed as if she was guided by an unseen force. Watching her, I felt a connection to something deeper, a sense of magic hidden within our everyday lives. Each stone, each toss, each catch held a fragment of that mystery, making the simple game a profound part of my childhood.

One night, I woke up with an urgent need to use the toilet. The house was quiet, the only sound the gentle rustle of the wind against the wooden walls. I slipped out of bed, the cold floor sending shivers up my spine as I tiptoed towards the door.

Our house was small, nestled in the heart of the village, and the toilet was an outhouse a short distance away. I stepped outside, the chill of the night air hitting me like a wave. The moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the ground. The village seemed to sleep, bathed in the eerie silver light.

As I made my way to the outhouse, I heard a soft rustling behind me. I turned, my heart pounding, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Dismissing it as my imagination, I continued on. The night seemed to grow colder, the air thick with an unspoken tension.

I finished my business and was about to head back when I saw it. Just beyond the outhouse, where the shadows of the trees mingled with the moonlight, stood a figure.

It was tall and slender, almost translucent, as if made of mist.

My breath caught in my throat, and I froze, unable to move.

The figure seemed to shimmer, its form shifting subtly with the breeze. As my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I realized it was not entirely human. It had the outline of a person, but its features were indistinct, as if hidden behind a veil. No part of it was clear, and I couldn't tell if it saw me as I saw it.

I was rooted to the spot, a strange mix of fear and fascination washing over me. It was strange—at that precise moment, I couldn't even remember how to scream.

All I could think about was fleeing from that place and seeking refuge in my room.

Without warning, the figure turned and glided away, seamlessly dissolving into the shadowy embrace of the trees. As if freed from an invisible spell, I snapped back to reality. My heart pounded furiously as I sprinted back to the house, each footfall echoing my mounting fear.

I burst into my room, slamming the door shut behind me with a force that rattled the old wooden frame. The darkness of my room enveloped me as I scrambled into bed, yanking the covers over my head with frantic movements. The oppressive silence was broken only by my ragged breathing.

Sleep remained a distant dream, eluding me as I lay there, cocooned in the safety of my bed. The encounter replayed in my mind, a haunting loop of the figure's shifting, indistinct form.

My pulse still raced, and a chill ran down my spine despite the warmth of the covers.

I felt trapped between the need to flee and the helplessness of my own fear, a prisoner of the night's unsettling mystery.

By morning, I had developed a high fever. My mother, with her single, piercing eye that always seemed to see through me, tended to me with a worried frown. She placed a cool cloth on my forehead and whispered soothing words, but I could see the concern in her gaze.

As I lay there, feverish and trembling, I recounted what I had seen. My mother listened silently, her expression unreadable. When I finished, she simply nodded and told me to rest. Her calm demeanor was comforting, yet her eye held a depth of understanding that made me wonder if she, too, had seen such things. As the fever burned through me, reality wavered between the haze of my delirium and the strange clarity of half-heard conversations. In my fevered state, I could barely distinguish between dreams and waking life. Through the fog of my discomfort, I could make out the dimly lit figures of my parents in the living room.

My parents' voices drifted through the room, their words a distant murmur in my fevered mind. They spoke in hushed tones, their voices low and soothing, but the content of their conversation was shrouded in the same mystery that enveloped my own fevered thoughts. I could hear the concern in their voices, a palpable tension that seemed to hang in the air like a heavy fog.

In the quiet living room, the room was bathed in a warm, golden glow, the lamp casting long, dancing shadows that played across the wooden walls. The wind whispered through the gaps in the old windows, rustling the pages of a forgotten book resting on a side table. It was a peaceful, almost otherworldly scene, marred only by the occasional creak of the wooden floorboards and the faint buzz of insects.

The conversation between my parents drifted through the air, mingling with the shadows cast by the flickering oil lamp. The room, bathed in the lamp's warm glow, seemed to hold its breath as my father's concerned voice broke the silence......

"How's Ph'ng's fever?"

My father's voice was edged with worry, cutting through the night's calm.

My mother's reply came in a gentle, yet strained tone.

"No, it hasn't gone down. When I touched his forehead, his temperature was still high. The fever hasn't relented."

Her voice carried a tremor, betraying her deep concern.

The heavy wooden door was left ajar, a common practice in our small village where trust in neighbors was as natural as the changing seasons. The gentle night breeze swept through the open doorway, carrying with it a chill that seemed to seep into the very walls of the house. Despite the absence of fans or air conditioning, the air was cool and pleasantly refreshing, with only the occasional bug flitting about, drawn to the soft, flickering light of the oil lamp.

The oil lamp's light flickered, casting dancing shadows across the walls as my father responded.

"We should take him to Dr. Ralphi's clinic again tomorrow morning. It's been four days. Why hasn't the fever broken?"

A shadow of unease crossed my mother's face as she shook her head slowly.

"I think it's unusual... Normally, the fever should have subsided by now."

Her voice was tinged with frustration and helplessness.

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In the midst of this, my mother's gaze seemed distant, her expression lost in a sea of unspoken fears. She whispered softly to herself, her words barely audible over the murmurs of the wind and the occasional buzz of insects around the lamp.

"I will see what I can do..."

The room's atmosphere grew heavier with her whispered promise, as if the very air itself held the weight of her unspoken worries. The lamp's light seemed to waver in response to her quiet resolution, the shadows elongating and shifting with each tremor of her voice. Outside, the wind rustled through the open doorway, carrying with it the chill of the night, mingling with the sense of uncertainty that hung thick in the air.

The night pressed in around them, the soft rustling of leaves and the distant murmur of the village creating a backdrop to their anxious conversation. Each word felt like it was cloaked in a shroud of mystique, the fever's persistence a puzzle that defied simple solutions. The flickering lamp and the whispering wind wove together a tapestry of unease, as if the very night were conspiring to keep the answers hidden, leaving my parents to grapple with the enigmatic nature of my illness.

The following day, a hazy light filtered through the window as I lay in a feverish haze, shivering under the blankets. The oppressive heat of my illness clung to me like a second skin, rendering me unable to move or speak. Through the dim veil of my fevered state, I watched as my mother prepared for a ritual that seemed to hold the promise of salvation.

I barely registered her movements as she stepped out of the house, her silhouette merging with the morning mist.

She walked with purpose, her steps deliberate and heavy, towards the small convenience store nearby. The narrow lanes were silent except for the distant hum of cicadas and the occasional flutter of birds disturbed by her passage.

In the store, she gathered her supplies with a quiet intensity—several sticks of incense, bundles of joss paper, and a few joss candles. Each item seemed to carry a weight of significance, like sacred instruments for an ancient rite.

Upon her return, her demeanor was more focused than usual, her expression etched with a blend of determination and concern. She took one of my sets of clothes, carefully folding it as if handling something fragile and precious. Alongside it, she collected the seven stones she had found for me, each one meticulously placed in a small, worn pouch.

The house felt different now, charged with an energy that was both calming and unsettling. My mother, usually so occupied with her daily chores, set aside her usual tasks. Instead, she busied herself with an intricate ritual, shaping the joss paper into small, delicate ingots.

The room was filled with the soft rustling of paper and the faint aroma of incense. Her hands worked with practiced precision, folding and molding the paper into ingot shapes that seemed to shimmer with an ethereal glow in the dim light.

As dusk settled over the village, an unusual stillness hung in the air. The sky, streaked with twilight hues, seemed to draw closer to the earth, shrouding the landscape in an early nightfall that added to the day's peculiar sense of foreboding. It was around 7:30 p.m., and the darkness came with an almost palpable weight, as if the day itself were holding its breath.

"Stay inside the house. Don't come out, and don't look outside."

my mother's voice, soft yet firm, drifted through the walls. There was a gravity to her tone, a gentle insistence that brooked no argument.

"Alright, I understand."

my father replied, his voice carrying a note of unease that matched the strange atmosphere of the evening.

My mother moved with a quiet determination, her silhouette outlined by the fading light. She gathered her preparations with a meticulous care that belied her calm exterior. A small, worn bag held the ingot-shaped joss paper, the joss candles, and the paper money. She also took the set of my old clothes and the seven stones she had carefully selected.

With her bundle in hand, she ventured out into the encroaching darkness. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint scent of earth and incense. The village, usually alive with the murmurs of evening life, was unusually silent, as if holding its collective breath.

She walked to the spot where I had seen the mysterious figure the night before. The area was marked by the faint glow of the last traces of twilight, casting long shadows that seemed to twist and writhe as if alive. My mother knelt on the soft earth, her movements deliberate and graceful.

In the dim light, she carefully inserted a joss candle into the ground. The candle's slender form was a beacon of light against the encroaching dark. With practiced hands, she struck a match and lit the candle, its flame flickering to life with a soft, golden glow.

The light seemed to breathe life into the shadows, casting a warm, gentle radiance that pushed back the darkness.

She then began to arrange the other items with precise care. The ingot-shaped joss paper, meticulously folded and shimmering with a faint, almost otherworldly sheen, was placed in a neat row in front of the candle. Next, the paper money was spread out with equal deliberation, creating a small altar of sorts.

My old clothes were laid out beside the joss paper, and the seven stones were positioned in a carefully chosen pattern around the candle.

The scene was both serene and haunting. The soft glow of the candlelight danced across the carefully arranged items, creating an ethereal spectacle that seemed to bridge the gap between the mundane and the mystical. Shadows played upon the ground, their shapes fluid and mysterious, as if whispering secrets from another realm.

My mother's face was illuminated by the candle's flickering light, her single eye reflecting the warm glow with a depth of emotion that spoke of ancient traditions and deep-seated beliefs. Her presence was both comforting and unsettling, as she moved with the grace of someone performing a sacred rite, a guardian of old rituals in a world that seemed to be holding its breath.

As she completed the arrangement, she stepped back, her gaze fixed on the small altar she had created. The quiet was profound, a silence that seemed to vibrate with the weight of the ritual's significance. The joss candle's flame flickered steadily, casting a protective glow that seemed to ward off the encroaching darkness.

The night had fully enveloped the village, but within that circle of light, there was a sense of calm and purpose. My mother's ritual was a bridge between the known and the unknown, a desperate plea for protection and healing in the face of an incomprehensible mystery.

My mother clutched my clothes to her chest, her face cast in a serene, almost otherworldly light as she whispered incantations with a voice that trembled with both hope and authority:

"Fear not, even if the North's chill sends shivers through your bones;

Fear not, even if the East's shadows loom large and menacing;

Let not the South's whispers of desolation deter you;

Nor let the West's darkness cloud your resolve;

Be undaunted by the four directions and the five realms;

By the riverbanks of the Wise Origin, where the Vajras stand firm on either side, Spirits from a thousand miles away, rush and enter the portal.

On this day, month, and year;

return Ph'ng, return Ph'ng, return Ph'ng, Return Ph'ng, return Ph'ng, return Ph'ng;

and restore his spirit unto him!"

With a measured, almost ceremonial grace, she knelt before the small altar she had created. Her single eye, glowing with an inner light, fixed on the spot where I had seen the figure the previous night.

She grasped the seven stones, her movements deliberate and precise. With a powerful, sweeping motion, she hurled them towards the place, each stone cutting through the air with a force that spoke of both reverence and urgency.

The stones landed with a soft thud, scattering across the ground in a pattern that seemed to resonate with the energy of the ritual.

As the stones settled, my mother turned her attention to the joss paper and paper money. The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows across her face, her expression a blend of determination and calm. She set the joss paper and paper money alight, the flames licking up and consuming them with a crackling, almost hypnotic rhythm. The smoke rose in swirling patterns, carrying with it whispered prayers and ancient incantations that seemed to mingle with the night air.

Once the flames had died down, she gathered the remnants and turned slowly back towards the house, her steps measured and deliberate. She carried my clothes with a reverent care, her single eye reflecting the dim light with an almost mystical intensity.

Entering the house, she moved with a practiced efficiency. She placed the clothes beside me with gentle hands and, as I stirred from my restless sleep, she roused me with a soft touch. The coolness of the wet cloths she used to cleanse my body felt refreshing against my fevered skin. Her movements were tender and methodical, each action imbued with a sense of calm and purpose.

With careful attention, she helped me change into the fresh clothes she had brought. Her touch was soothing, a balm to my discomfort and confusion. As she worked, her face remained focused and serene, her single eye revealing a depth of resolve and compassion. The ritual she had performed seemed to have imbued the room with a sense of tranquil energy, a protective barrier against the night's lingering shadows.

The transformation was almost tangible. As I settled into the clean clothes, a sense of warmth and relief began to wash over me, easing the feverish haze that had clouded my mind. My mother's presence was a grounding force, a beacon of calm in the midst of the night's surreal and unsettling events.

The room, illuminated by the soft glow of the lingering candlelight, felt safe and cocooned from the darkness outside. The mystic air of the ritual lingered, wrapping around us like a protective shroud, and with each passing moment, the night seemed to recede, leaving behind a sense of renewed hope and quiet determination.

The next morning, I woke up feeling revitalized, my fever completely vanished and my body brimming with energy. The sun's rays filtered through the window, casting a warm, golden glow across the room. I leaped out of bed, excitement bubbling within me, and sprinted towards my mother, who was busy preparing breakfast in the kitchen.

"Mom! What are we having today? Can I have a red bean flavor ice bar? I feel great and I don't have a fever anymore!"

I asked, my voice filled with eagerness.

My mother looked up from her work, a warm, knowing smile spreading across her face. She reached out and gently placed her hand on my forehead, her touch cool and soothing against my skin. She scrutinized me with a blend of relief and affection before responding.

"That's wonderful to hear, Ph'ng. It seems like your fever has finally gone down. But let's stick to porridge and healthy foods for a few more days before we celebrate with ice cream, alright?"

I pouted slightly but understood.

"Okay..."

I said, nodding in agreement. I knew how much my parents had worried when I was ill and felt it was only right to take better care of myself.

Later that evening, after my father returned from work, my mother served a steaming bowl of chicken porridge.

The aroma was comforting, filling the house with a sense of homeliness and warmth. We sat together at the table, enjoying the meal and the simple pleasure of each other's company.

The evening was peaceful, with the soft hum of conversation and the clinking of utensils forming a harmonious backdrop.

As night fell, a tranquil calm settled over the house.

I found myself walking outside to the toilet, the cool night air brushing against my skin. I glanced towards the spot where I had seen the figure, a sense of calm now replacing the earlier fear.

The moon hung low in the sky, casting a gentle, silvery light that seemed to wash the world in a holy glow.

The cool breeze felt like a comforting embrace, and the darkness was no longer menacing but rather peaceful and serene.

The haunting image of the figure had faded from my memory, replaced by a soothing sense of safety and contentment.

The night's earlier unease had transformed into a comforting stillness, with only the moonlight and the gentle whispers of the wind guiding my steps. The house felt like a haven, its protective aura a testament to the strength of my mother's love and the ancient rites she had performed.

As I returned inside, I felt a deep sense of gratitude and tranquility.

The experience had left me with a newfound appreciation for the simple, quiet moments of life, and the once-fleeting fear had been replaced by a profound sense of peace.