A Peek into Lena’s Journey

The following is an excerpt from Lena’s Journey by Vivian Liu.

The wind rustles through the temple courtyard, stirring the red prayer ribbons that hang from the eaves. I slowly stand up, pushing myself up with my hands, then walking slowly, hands trailing along the stone railings, each step soft on the moss-lined path. The smell of incense clings to the air, warm and a little sharp, just like I remember.

Every New Year, we came here. Mum would dress me in a puffy red coat, and Dad would lift me up so I could see the bells hanging from the lanterns. We’d light three sticks of incense, bow, and make a wish. But this time is different. There’s no crowd, no fireworks in the distance. Just sunlight filtering through the clouds and a gentle quiet that seems to hum through the stone.

I pass the old koi pond—the one I once dropped a red envelope into—and pause at the edge, watching the lazy fish turn slow circles in the water. Something shifts in the corner of my eye. A soft shimmer near the willow.

I follow it.

The temple grounds are quieter here.

I walk slowly, letting my fingers brush the mossy stone railings. The scent of incense is softer now, mixed with something earthier—spring grass, plum blossoms, maybe even the faint trace of burnt offerings. The crowd I saw before is far behind me. All that’s left is the soft sound of wind threading through the willow branches.

Then I see him.

A man sits under the largest willow tree, just beside the pond. He wears pale gray robes with faint blue lining that catches the light as it moves. His hair is tied back neatly, and his hands rest lightly on his knees. From a distance, he could be a sculpture, the way he sits so still. Not frozen, just—quiet. Present.

I take a few careful steps forward.

As if sensing me, he opens his eyes.

They’re not strange or glowing or overly serious like some movie monk. They’re just kind, steady, like he’s used to looking at things for a long time without rushing to speak.

“You came,” he says.

I pause. “Did you know I would?”

He smiles—not mysteriously, just a little like Dad does when he fixes something and doesn’t want to brag about it. “Let’s say I hoped you would.”

He gestures to the stone beside him. I sit slowly, folding my legs under me, not quite sure what to say yet.

The pond in front of us ripples quietly. Sunlight glints off the water, and tiny blossoms float across the surface. I watch one swirl in slow circles.

“It’s peaceful here,” I murmur.

“It is,” he agrees.

I glance at him. “It’s strange though. I’ve been to this temple before—every New Year, with my family—but I don’t remember this part.”

“That’s because you weren’t ready to see it,” he says. “Sometimes places reveal themselves when we need them most.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I nod and keep watching the water.

Around the bend of the path, there’s laughter. A group of children chase after kites, their voices light and high. Bright ribbons dance above them in the breeze.

I smile without thinking. “We never flew kites at the temple. Dad always said there were too many people.”

The Taoist hums. “It’s not unusual. But flying kites is part of it.”

“Part of what?”

He turns slightly, just enough to face me. “Qingming.”

I blink. “But...I thought Qingming was about graves. Cleaning tombs and lighting incense.”

“That’s one part,” he says gently. “But Qingming is also a celebration of life. Of spring. Of balance. We honor the dead, yes, but we also step into the sunlight. We walk in the hills. We eat together. We fly kites.”

I look again at the kites, soaring and dipping. “What do kites have to do with anything?”

“There’s an old belief,” he explains, “that when you release a kite—really let it go, cutting the string—it carries your bad luck and worries into the sky. You feel lighter afterward.”

I think about that. Letting go of worries. It sounds a bit too easy. But also...kind of beautiful.

We sit in silence for a moment, and I notice two figures a little ways off, their hands moving quickly as they shape small green dumplings.

I point to them. “And those?”

“Qingtuan,” he says. “Spring dumplings. The green comes from mugwort. A plant used to keep sickness and bad spirits away. We eat them for health. For renewal.”

“Like medicine?”

He smiles. “Like hope.”

The idea settles quietly in my chest. Hope you can hold. Hope you can taste.

“And the willow tree?” I ask softly. “It feels...important.”

“It is.” He looks up at the branches above us. “Willows bend but do not break. They endure winter and bloom in spring. We carry their branches during Qingming as a sign of resilience. And the word for willow sounds like the phrase, ‘Stay a little longer.’ A gentle wish, for those who’ve gone.”

I study the way the branches sway overhead. As if waving to someone who isn’t quite gone.

I think about my grandfather. I never got to go to the burial ground. They always said I was too young. Then I got sick. Now they don’t say anything at all.

The Taoist doesn’t rush me. He just watches the wind move through the leaves.

“Is that why they never tell me the full reason?” I ask eventually. “Why I can’t go with them?”

He glances at me. “Maybe they’re trying to protect you. Maybe they’re not sure how to explain what they’re still learning to carry themselves.”

I look down. “I just want to remember him properly.”

“And you are,” he says. “Sitting here. Asking questions. That’s remembrance, too.”

The pond reflects the sky above us—kites drifting like birds, threads trailing behind them. For a moment, I picture cutting the string. Letting one go.

“What about the animals?” I ask, quietly now. “I heard some aren’t eaten, like cows. My yeye never ate beef. He didn’t say why.”

The Taoist’s smile widens slightly, and there’s something amused but not unkind in his eyes. “Ah, yes. There are things we choose not to eat. Cows, well, they are sacred in some traditions. In Taoism, they are the mount of the deity Tai Shang Lao Jun. We honor their place in the world.”

I nod slowly. And without meaning to, I let a memory slip in.

May. Her sparkly crown. The beef jerky.

I remember her grinning and reaching for the packet. I remember watching, not saying anything. And then the look on her face when she realized what she’d eaten. The way she looked at me.

My stomach tightens.

I shake my head to push the memory away.

“And cranes?” I ask, needing a change. “Popo always said they were special.”

“They are,” he says. “Cranes represent purity, loyalty. They’re seen as messengers to the heavens in many stories. We don’t harm them. We respect what they symbolize. Dogs too are loyal creatures, companions to humans—so we treat them with the utmost respect as well.”

I nod, trying to picture a world where certain animals are sacred. Untouchable, not just for rules but because they mean something.

It feels...safe. Balanced.

“What about turtles? And snakes?” I ask. “I think I heard somewhere they were important.”

“They are the guardians of the north. In Taoist belief, they’re the generals of Zhen Wu, a powerful deity. They’re honored, not feared.”

I take all of this in slowly. The food. The kites. The dumplings. The animals. The willows.

Everything connects. Everything has a reason. A rhythm.

“So,” I say, quietly, “Qingming is about remembering… but also moving forward.”

He nods. “Exactly. It’s about holding both things at once. Grief, yes. But also celebration.”

…

For more on Lena’s Journey, check it out on Amazon.

Vivian Liu is a student of theology, history, and English literature interested in how different belief systems shape values, identity, and community. Her work exists where morality, religion, and cultural understanding intersect, and she is passionate about helping younger generations access these themes in a respectful and engaging manner.