Forgotten bundles were no rare sight along the post roads. A young scholar bound for Chang'an to sit the exami…
Forgotten bundles were no rare sight along the post roads. A young scholar bound for Chang'an to sit the examinations came upon a faded cloth sack propped against the gnarled roots of an old locust tree by the road. The sack was full and round, but its owner was nowhere to be seen. A pack of wolves stood circled around it, yet not one would go near. The scholar, not wishing the owner to return and find it gone, reached down and picked it up. It was warm to the touch, and from somewhere within came what sounded like quiet, low weeping.
The sack was not heavy, but it clung to his palm as if it had taken root there. That night, when he stopped at an inn and tried to open it, the drawstring cinched itself tight on its own, like a living thing refusing to give. Under the lamp, the cloth looked old and worn, and a stubborn smell of rust and damp earth clung to it that would not leave.
He dreamed of an armored figure, broken and bloodied, crawling across a field of corpses, murmuring without cease: "Home. Let me go home." He woke with a start to find the sack burning hot in his hand. A sticky, dark liquid was seeping through the weave and dripping between his fingers. Half his body had gone numb. When he looked into the mirror, his left arm had grown faint, fading toward nothing.
Three days later, the sack lay open on the bed at the inn, empty of everything but the thick smell of old blood and rust. The scholar was gone, leaving no trace. Only the faded cloth sack remained, still round and full, the drawstring now slack and loose. Outside, the wind moaned low, and beneath it came the distant sound of armor, fading down the road.