Relógio Escondido

By the banks of the Yuang River, dewdrops clung to the withered grass along the shore. The autumn wind swayed the thin blades, making each droplet tremble as if about to fall.

The dew condensed white and heavy—it was the season of White Dew.

It was early morning, and the sky was just beginning to lighten.

“Hurry up, hurry up, move faster! Watch your step, don’t slip—”

A large covered boat had moored at the bank. With wooden poles, the coffin was lifted ashore, sending ripples across the water. Soon, hurried footsteps echoed along the path leading from the dock to Rouge Town, and through the morning mist emerged a small funeral procession.

To call it a procession was generous; save for the four pallbearers, there was only a single middle-aged man leading the way.

He was somewhat short and stout, dressed in a steward’s attire. His indigo tunic, frequently washed, was frayed at the edges. At this moment, his brows were tightly knit as he glanced back, barking orders at the others.

“We all know, no need to repeat it.” The journey had been arduous, and the four carrying the coffin were so exhausted their faces looked ashen. They replied softly, not wishing to say more.

The coffin was not large, unvarnished, its wood pale and raw. At a glance, one might mistake it for an oversized chest, save for the eight-sided mirror hanging at its head, a sight that drew sighs or prompted superstitious avoidance.

The mirror at the head served to ward off evil—keeping spirits away from both the deceased within and from the wrongful ghost