The Dream Play One night, a peddler lost his way and wandered into a wild persimmon grove. Drawn by flickerin…
The Dream Play
One night, a peddler lost his way and wandered into a wild persimmon grove. Drawn by flickering firelight, he stumbled upon a shadow puppet theater performing deep in the woods. Paper figures danced to haunting songs, watched by a dozen indistinct spectators, some laughing, others weeping. Mesmerized, the peddler grew sleepy and leaned against a tree, drifting into a slumber.
At dawn, the stage and crowd had vanished, replaced only by old, neglected graves. Rubbing his eyes, he thought it all a dream until he noticed the tree he'd rested against: a withered willow with drooping branches like flowing hair. Beneath it lay a faded puppet, its features matching those from the night's performance. Terrified, he fled.
I used to think people were just spinning yarns when they spoke of the world of the living and the dead overlapping. But perhaps those restless souls gathered one last time, replaying lost joys and sorrows. Thankfully, the peddler's sleep spared him from disturbing their fragile peace. Had he cried out, who knows if he would have escaped alive?