Shu Yan couldn’t shake the memory of the altar. It lingered in her thoughts as she moved through the village, a quiet reminder of something unspoken, an inheritance she hadn’t realized was hers.

Her conversation with Aowen had deepened her curiosity, and she felt a quiet determination building within her—to understand the river, her family’s role, and the choices that had been left hidden.

The day passed in a blur of quiet tasks, the village’s rhythms steady and familiar. By the time evening fell, Shu Yan found herself back at the inn, seated by a window that overlooked the darkening landscape. Grandmother Lin approached, a thin, worn notebook in her hands.

“I thought you might find this useful,” she said, holding the notebook out. “It belonged to your grandmother. She kept notes about her time here, her memories, and her connection to the river.”

Shu Yan accepted it carefully, feeling the weight of its age in her hands. The cover was faded, the edges soft from years of use, and a faint, musty scent rose from the pages as she opened it.

“Thank you,” Shu Yan murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

Grandmother Lin nodded, her gaze softening. “Your grandmother believed that the river held more than just water. She thought it carried memories, that it remembered every soul who had come to its edge.”

Shu Yan looked down at the notebook, her fingers tracing the first, faded lines of her grandmother’s handwriting. There was a reverence to the words, as though they had been written with a quiet devotion.

“Your family’s role was more than just tradition, Shu Yan. It was a bond, a promise made long ago.” Grandmother Lin’s words lingered in the air before she turned and left, leaving Shu Yan alone with the notebook and the shadows.

Shu Yan settled back into her chair, the low light casting soft shadows over the worn pages. The first entry was simple, almost mundane, but as she turned the pages, she found passages that hinted at something deeper.

"The river is a spirit, one that has watched over our village for generations. We are its keepers, bound to it by blood and by memory. The bond is not ours alone; it belongs to every soul who steps into its waters."

She turned another page, and another, feeling as if she were piecing together fragments of a forgotten story. Her grandmother’s words spoke of rituals,

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small acts of devotion offered to the river, and the importance of honoring the spirit known as Li Shui. Shu Yan could almost see her grandmother at the river’s edge, her hands cupped in the water as she whispered words of remembrance.

One entry caught her eye, a note scrawled in the margins as though it had been added hastily.

"The bond is fragile. I fear it may one day be broken by those who see only water, not spirit. If that happens, the river will remember, and it will mourn."

Shu Yan felt a shiver run through her, her pulse quickening. She could sense the quiet desperation in her grandmother’s words, a plea to remember what the village had begun to forget. Closing the journal, she held it close to her chest, the weight of her family’s history settling over her.

Later that evening, as she stepped outside for a breath of fresh air, Shu Yan spotted Mei, one of the younger villagers, sweeping the steps of her family’s shop. Mei glanced up, offering a quick smile.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Mei asked, pausing her work.

Shu Yan shook her head, smiling faintly. “Just needed some air. It feels strange being back here, like everything is familiar and new at the same time.”

Mei nodded, her gaze drifting toward the river. “My grandmother used to tell stories about the river. She said it had a memory, that it would remember those who honored it.”

Shu Yan felt a pang of recognition, remembering the words she had read in her grandmother’s journal. “Do people here still believe that?”

Mei shrugged, her expression thoughtful. “Some do, I think. But it’s not like before. Some say that kind of thinking belongs to the past, that it’s just water now.” She looked at Shu Yan, a quiet sadness in her eyes. “But I think there’s truth in those old stories. Don’t you?”

Shu Yan nodded slowly, feeling a kinship with Mei’s quiet belief. “I think so, too. Some things… they’re too deep to forget.”

As midnight approached, Shu Yan found herself drawn back to the river, the journal clutched in her hands. The moon cast a soft glow over the water, illuminating the small stone altar nestled in the shadows. She knelt by the altar, setting the journal beside her, and reached into the cool water, letting it flow over her fingers.

A memory stirred within her—a brief, vivid image of her as a child, kneeling by the same altar with her parents at her side. Her mother had placed her hands in the water, guiding her fingers over the stones as she whispered words Shu Yan could no longer remember.

She felt a pang of longing, an ache for something she had lost without ever realizing it was gone.

As she gazed into the water, she noticed something glinting beneath the surface, half-buried in the sand. Reaching down, she pulled it free, her fingers brushing against a small, smooth stone etched with the same spiral pattern as the charm Grandmother Lin had given her.

Holding it up to the moonlight, she turned the stone over in her hand, feeling its familiar weight. It was a reminder, a token of the bond her family had once held with the river.

Shu Yan pressed the stone to her chest, feeling a quiet strength settle over her. She didn’t fully understand her role yet, but she knew she had been chosen, called back to fulfill a promise her family had left behind.

As Shu Yan prepared to leave, she felt the river’s quiet presence wrap around her, like an embrace from an old friend. The air felt charged, alive, as though the river itself were acknowledging her, recognizing her choice to honor its memory.

For a brief moment, the water’s surface shimmered, and Shu Yan thought she saw her grandmother’s reflection gazing back at her, a soft smile gracing her familiar face. She blinked, and the image was gone, but a sense of peace lingered, a reassurance that her path was the right one.

With the journal in one hand and the stone in the other, Shu Yan turned away from the river, a quiet determination guiding her steps back toward the village. She knew the road ahead would not be easy, but she felt a renewed strength within her—a strength drawn from the river’s memory, from the legacy her family had left for her to carry forward.