Lan Zhan hesitates, pinned in place temporarily by the thought of his mother in her little house, sitting at her table and thinking of him as often as he thinks of her. She is not allowed to leave, but he knows that she sits by the windows and gazes out at the gentian flowers. Perhaps she does think of him then, too, and of his brother. They were taken from her when they were born, returned only as monthly parcels.

Do not harbor doubts. Lan Zhan puts his hand into the larger hand offered to him, which is soft to the touch. He looks trustingly up at its owner and waits to be led.