That night Shen Ye dreamed. In the dream he was seven again and his mother still lived. She sat by the window; sunlight gilded her shoulders in warm gold. She turned and smiled at him. "Little Ye, come—Mother made you new clothes." He ran to embrace her, but the moment he touched her hand it turned ice-cold. Her face blurred, as if something were eating it away. He cried *Mother* until she could no longer hear. Her figure faded until she was only a wisp of smoke dissolving into air. He woke ...