West Wind

Lin took the west road at dawn. The brother caught him where the bamboo was a different forest, whole, without music.

“You moved it,” the brother said. It was not a question.

“I changed its shelf. If you want to do it again, he can lift the cup now, and he also knows who you are. That is not an advantage for you.”

The brother did not draw. His hands were the hands of a man who had used the technique so often he no longer distinguished a greeting from a strike. “And if I ask you to treat me? I can’t feel the difference anymore. That’s a wound too.”

Lin looked at the wind, which came clean from the healthy part of the forest. “Then you sit down, you don’t follow me through the canes, and you tell me what you want to keep. I don’t treat anyone who asks me to walk behind him.”

They walked back without speaking. In the village the cup was on the table, full, and the uncle did not stand when he saw his brother. He breathed. He did not smile. He pointed at the other stool. Outside, the green bamboo in Lin’s pack stayed quiet, and the broken grove, for one evening, forgot the flute.