crumpled. But who knows how the woman would react to either of these? Choose wrongly, and it would be the end of her. Humans are fragile, like hothouse flowers. It is uncommon to see a familiar face, especially here, wrapped in the shadows of this stone shelter, on a winter's night that would paralyze the hardiest climber. But there he is, hailing, awaiting, his wide-brimmed hat wet and dark on the floor, dumplings bobbing in the pot over the fire. You almost feel trapped by those green, flashing, wild flames. Eons ago, you met another stranger here, a lost traveler, his beard crusted with snow and pointing down his chest. His frostbitten fingers had gone black, and still they fumbled with the beard. The sound resembled that of stale bread cracking apart. Promise me you'll bury me, he pleaded, and you had no use for such bloated self-regard -- after his death, Lin Page 9 his body lay there for a time, longer even than the reigns of kings, but eventually it withered, smothered by time. The Stranger does not know that where he sits now is the very spot where the lost traveler rests, but all that is in plain sight is a table missing a leg. Without complaint, the Stranger props up the empty corner with his knee, and eats with girlish fingers. Beautiful, he sighs, and with that, this encounter no longer seems like a coincidence but necessity. He begins: Heard any news -- You finish: -- From home? You laugh. Perhaps this is all rhetorical. That must be the point -- he is opening this topic, just like the tiniest droplet of water will bloom like a flower when you speak the word Yes to it. So you reply: You know where -- And he says, No. Your inevitable next question: Then why? Purpose hardening his face, he replies, The only home I know is you. Because to meet you, to fight you, even to lose -- and then find you again … All