Autumn was here. The leaves turned — red, gold and the brown that comes after gold gives up. The air cooled and carried the smell of things ending on schedule.

  Wei stood on the road. Pack on his back. Face tilted up. Eyes closed.

  "Autumn," he said.

  I saw the leaves. Saw through them.

  We walked. The road was wider here — the northwest pass, well-maintained. Trees on both sides. Color everywhere, the kind that pretends celebration while preparing for death. Cart tracks in the mud from a merchant caravan, the ruts still holding rainwater.

  "How far to the next town?" Wei asked.

  "Two days. Maybe less, if the road holds."

  He nodded. Kicked a stone. Watched it skip ahead and vanish into the grass.

  He had a bandage on his left forearm, wrapped in cloth and herbs, tied with a knot. Applied not by me but by himself. Alone. In the dark. Before he thought I was awake.

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  I saw the bandage right after he had applied it, but said nothing. I waited for him to mention it.

  He didn't.

  He walked. Bright despite the season. Smiling at the leaves. His left arm angled slightly — favoring the wound.

  A creek ran alongside the road for half a li, clear and shallow over pale stones. Wei crouched at its edge and splashed water on his face. Wiped it with his good arm.

  "Cold," he said. Grinning.

  "It's getting late in the year."

  "Still cold." He shook his hand dry and stood. Droplets caught the light.

  The road climbed. Gradually, then with intent. The trees thinned — cedar giving way to birch, white trunks against the hillside, their leaves yellow and letting go. We passed a stone marker, the characters worn smooth by centuries of weather. Something about a temple. Or a toll. The distinction had blurred.

  "Your arm," I said. Three hours into the walk.

  He glanced at it. "Caught it on a branch. Last night."

  A lie. Small. Clinical. Delivered in the tone I recognized because I had invented it.

  "Let me look at it."

  "It's fine."

  "Wei."

  "It's fine, Yun."

  I didn't push.

  A bird — gray, fat, indignant — burst from the underbrush ahead. Wei flinched. Then laughed at himself.

  "Thought it was a spirit beast," he said.

  We walked. The road curved toward the mountains — gray, distant, the patience of things that measured time in epochs. Wind carried pine resin and wet earth.

  Wei walked ahead of me. By three steps. Then five. Then seven.

  The distance grew.