Chapter 4The garden between moments

The pagoda looks very out of place in the thick fog.

Blue roof tiles. Regal wood with elaborate carvings. Stone floor etched with crescent shapes. It looks like the kind of thing you’d see in a painting and think, “How peaceful,” and the closer you look the more freaked out you get with layers of hidden details.

But the old man standing beneath it?

He looks… familiar.

Long grey hair tied with a white ribbon. Flowing robes that shimmer like they’re stitched from morning fog. Wise eyes. Long nose. Gentle face. Bookstore keeper face!

“What did you just call yourself… ‘Grandfather Moon’?” I stare at him, squinting. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You—are you cosplaying?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smiles, soft and amused, like someone watching a puppy trying to dig through marble.

I point at him with dramatic flair. “Are you… moonlighting for an acting gig? Does the pension not pay enough? Poor you, I always thought the bookstore wasn’t getting a lot of business.”

He walks toward me with slow, deliberate grace. His footsteps don’t echo on the stone. It’s like his feet don’t even touch it.

“You are not dreaming, Peach,” he says kindly. “Nor lost. Only between.”

“Between…?”

“Between the world’s breaths and heartbeats. Between the page that ends and the one that begins. This is the Garden Between Moments.”

I blink. “Is there… a snack bar?”

Instead of answering, he looks past me, toward the mist beyond the steps. “Ah, you brought the book.”

My bag feels heavier all of a sudden. I reach in and pull it out. The cover feels colder now, like moonlight.

He places his hand over it. “The story is waiting.”

I stare at him. My mouth wants to say something funny to make sense of the situation, but words dry out, and my brain just farts some weird sound. “Umm… word?”

Because something about his presence—it feels like a page I should have remembered, like a song I’d once heard under the stars and forgot how to hum.

He turns, robes trailing behind like cloud ribbons.

“Come,” he says. “You have seen stories. Now let me show you the world that holds them.”

I follow Grandfather Moon across a narrow stone path that curves between swirling mist. Beneath our feet, small pools of water appear—some wide as rice paddies, others no bigger than tea bowls. Each one shimmers with its own rhythm and light.

One looks like frozen glass until a ripple moves across it like a dragon swimming just beneath. Another glows softly from below, pulsing with starlight like a cosmic heartbeat. One pond even has tiny golden leaves drifting in perfect circles, like time itself is going for a leisurely spin.

Suddenly, I feel a drizzle. I look up and I see warm glowing clouds blended with gentle pastel colors. The water drops have no wetness, nor weight, and they glisten with rainbow spectrums. As the rain drops accumulate, I see they spark as they land, and new infant ponds suddenly appear.

They aren’t just pretty.

They are… alive.

I’m supposed to be surprised and confused. But I’m simply too busy taking in the breathtaking view.

As we continue deeper into the garden, the path opens into what looks like a cosmic courtyard. Stone lanterns float at impossible heights, their light illuminating as if time moves differently. Between them, gates shimmer like the moon, each one leading to a different section of the garden.

“These are the Twelve Gates of the Zodiac,” Grandfather Moon explains, gesturing to the nearest one. “Each represents a different aspect of cosmic balance.”

We pass through a gate that feels like walking through warm silk, and suddenly we’re in a section where the ponds are arranged in a perfect circle, each one pulsing with a different elemental colour. The arrangement reminds me of the traditional five elements—wood, fire, earth, metal, water—but here they are entire universes, each one singing its own song.

“Watch,” Grandfather Moon says, and the ponds begin to rotate around the center, creating a dance of light and energy that makes my heart race with wonder. The movement isn’t just beautiful—it feels like watching the very fabric of creation breathe.

In the center of this cosmic dance, a single stone stands, perfectly balanced on its point. It doesn’t fall, doesn’t move, just hovers there like it has forgotten the law of gravity. “The Stone of Perfect Balance,” he says. “It has never fallen, not in all the ages of creation.”

I reach out to touch it, but my hand passes through like it isn’t really there. “It exists in all places and none,” he explains. “A reminder that true balance is not about staying still, but about moving in perfect harmony with everything around you.”

We continue through another moon gate, and this section is completely different. Here, the ponds are arranged in what looks like a miniature mountain landscape, complete with floating peaks that defy gravity. Each mountain peak holds a pond at its summit, and the water flows upward from the ponds, creating streams that run along invisible paths through the air.

“This is the Garden of Borrowed Scenery,” Grandfather Moon says. “Each mountain borrows its beauty from the others, just as traditional gardens use distant views to create depth.”

I watch as one of the floating streams curves around a particularly tall peak, and suddenly I realize the water isn’t just flowing—it’s carrying tiny stars that sparkle and dance as they move. “The water remembers the light it has touched,” he explains. “Each drop carries the memory of every star it has reflected.”

The next section we enter is filled with what looks like giant bonsai trees, but instead of growing in pots, they grow in pools of liquid light. Their branches spread in impossible directions, some reaching toward the stars, others curving back on themselves in perfect circles. The leaves aren’t green but translucent, each one containing what looks like tiny galaxies that spins slowly within.

“These are the Trees of Infinite Patience,” Grandfather Moon says. “They grow not toward the sun, but toward the center of all things. Each branch represents a different path to understanding.”

I notice that some of the trees have what looks like fruit hanging from their branches—perfect spheres of light that pulse with different colours. “Those are the Seeds of Possibility,” he explains. “Each one contains the potential for an entirely new realm.”

As we walk, I begin to notice that the garden isn’t just beautiful—it’s alive in a way that goes beyond the ponds. The very air seems to breathe, and the light has a quality I’ve never seen before. It isn’t just bright or colorful—it has weight, texture, even taste. I can almost feel it on my tongue, like drinking liquid starlight.

“Each pond,” Grandfather Moon says, “is a realm.”

I stare. “Like a… planet?”

He tilts his head slightly. “Kind of like a universe, close to the word you are familiar with. We do not identify them by names, but in rhythms. We do not just measure them by counting stars, but listen to their stories.”

Taking notice of my curiosity, he gestures to a pond that swirls in slow spirals of green and gold. “This world sings low and slow. Time moves thickly. Beings here live long, but love rarely. I need to invite my friends over to warm it up.”

Another pond bubbles rapidly like hot soup, flickering orange and violet. “This one burns fast. Life dances brightly but lives too fast before memory can root. I will need to ask little Baize to cool it off a bit.”

“Every pond has its own harmony. Some wild, some quiet, some broken.”

We continue through one final gate, and this section is unlike any other. Here, the ponds are arranged in what looks like a miniature version of a traditional scholar’s garden, complete with winding paths, stone bridges that arch over nothing, and what appears to be a tiny pavilion floating in the center of it all.

The pavilion is made of what looks like solidified moonlight, its roof curved like a traditional Chinese pagoda but with impossible angles that make my eyes hurt to look at directly. Inside, I can see what looks like a miniature tea ceremony happening—tiny figures made of light moving around a table, pouring what appears to be liquid starlight into cups.

“This is the Pavilion of Eternal Moments,” Grandfather Moon says. “Here, every perfect moment that has ever existed is preserved, like tea leaves in amber.”

I watch as one of the tiny figures raises its cup, and suddenly the entire pavilion begins to glow with a warm, golden light. The light spreads outward, touching each of the ponds around it, and for a moment, they all seem to pulse in perfect harmony.

“It’s beautiful,” I whisper, and I mean it. This isn’t just beautiful—it’s the kind of beauty that makes you want to cry, because you know you could never hold onto it, could never take it home with you.

“Beauty is not meant to be held,” Grandfather Moon says gently, as if reading my thoughts. “It is meant to be witnessed, to remind us that perfection exists, even if only for a moment.”

I don’t know what to say, so I say the first thing that pops out.

“So… what about my uni… umm… realm?”

His eyes crinkle like he’s smiling at a joke told long ago. “Next time I visit, I will need you to take me to savour the delicacies from your neighbourhood.”

I laugh nervously, “Yeah sure, anytime. So… do you just sit up here and pond-watch for eternity?”

“I tend them. As one tends stories. And sometimes, when a world forgets its balance…”

He looks at me, soft and steady. ”…I send someone to remind it.”

Before I can ask what that means, he steps forward—directly into one of the ponds.

I yelp. “Wait! Wet socks are the worst fate in any universe—”

But he doesn’t sink. The water folds around him like silk, parting with light instead of splash.

He extends his hand. “Come. You will not be wet. Only… present.”

I hesitate. Then take his hand.

The moment I step in, the realm changes.

Inside the pond is not water, but light. It’s an infinitely large expanse of songs and memories.

Countless glowing specks swim all around like they’re swirling in golden tea. They hum gently—some warm, some sharp, some glowing and some dim.

“What you see is the construct of this realm,” Grandfather Moon says. “This realm is young, warmth reigns. Energy flows easily. And so, life grows fast and abundantly.”

I turn slowly, awestruck. This isn’t just a place. Everything is alive.

“Let us move a bit closer.” I follow Grandfather Moon’s voice as the speck grows larger.

No, our astral bodies are getting smaller.

We keep shrinking and moving closer to the speck, and I can see it’s not just a speck, there are oceans of different colors, mountains of graceful shapes, and trees embellished with glistening gems, wondrous sights that I could never describe.

Eventually, we stop shrinking, and once I regain my balance we’re standing on a long and serene landscape that resembles a beach. Even through my sneakers, I can feel the silky sand beneath, gently pulsing with the flowing waves.

Grandfather Moon slowly bends his body and gracefully scoops up a small handful of sand. It glistens, and with a closer look each grain of sand is a perfectly sphered marble. And in the middle of it, floating gently like a single seed carried on wind, is an obsidian-colored flake.

Grandfather Moon carefully points to it.

“That,” he says, “is the world of Shen.”

The obsidian-colored speck hovers before us, spinning slowly. Its edges shimmer like a pearl lit from within—but as we draw closer, that light bends strangely, as if something inside it has cracked.

I reach toward it.

Grandfather Moon’s voice is soft behind me. “Prepare yourself. Shen still breathes.”

We drift forward, and suddenly the speck blooms open—but instead of just revealing the world, it creates a corridor of visions around us.

As we walk through, it’s like being in a corridor of movies playing simultaneously on every surface. The walls, ceiling, and floor are alive with moving images of Shen’s suffering, each one showing different moments, different places, different tragedies. I can see everything happening in real-time, as if I’m standing right there in each scene.

The tunnel pulses with the world’s agony, and I can feel it—not as sound, but as pressure. A deep, vibrating ache in my chest, like the air itself has forgotten how to rest.

Through the shifting images, I can see the supercontinent stretching beneath us, wide and jagged, like a jade disc shattered and roughly fused back together.

Mountains have collapsed sideways, rivers twist in mid-course, clouds hang like torn silk. Lightning cracks constantly in the distance, without thunder. The land shifts under its own weight—lava, steam, desert, forest—all colliding as if the Five Elements are no longer speaking to each other.

It isn’t dead.

It’s suffering.

Cities are still standing, some of them anyway. But their roofs burn, their flags twist in wind that doesn’t belong to any season. Through the tunnel’s shifting images, I see people fighting, hoarding, crying. Others wander in stunned silence, dragging carts of wilted vegetables past broken statues. Each scene plays out like a window into reality, allowing me to witness the suffering up close.

“Balance,” Grandfather Moon whispers, “is not peace. It is motion held in harmony. When that harmony breaks… motion becomes torment.”

I nod, gulp, and watch helplessly in silence.

Then I see it—at the continent’s center, projected on the tunnel walls like a massive hologram.

The Celestial Tower.

Or… what’s left of it.

Once it had reached beyond clouds, separating sky and earth. Now it lies half-collapsed, fractured into spirals of floating stone and charred debris. Its foundation flickers, no longer anchored to the flow of the stars.

And above it—no stars.

The sky is dim. The heavens look… hollow.

“The Celestials,” Grandfather Moon says, “departed long ago. Their watch was never meant to be forever. They believed their gifts would endure.”

“But they didn’t,” I say softly.

“No,” he says. “Not without guardians. Not without harmony.”

He turns to me, face full of stillness. “One hundred years ago, the Celestial Princesses defeated Móyuān and restored Shen. They held the five elements in their hearts and brought harmony where even the gods could not.”

I look back at the land. “And then they disappeared.”

He doesn’t nod. He doesn’t need to.

“The balance was restored, but balance, like all things in the cosmos, is not eternal. The dust of decay would return once more, and when it did, the world would need its Five Daughters again…” he says. “But when none of the Celestial Princesses returned… it began to rot.”

I turn to him, confused. “What do you mean?”

“History has a way of repeating itself when people forget,” Grandfather Moon says gravely. “Móyuān has returned—stronger than a hundred years ago, strong enough to disrupt the balance once and for all. The world you see now is what happens when the dust returns once more.”

I stare at the broken Celestial Tower, the cracked world beneath it, the dimming heavens above.

It doesn’t feel like looking at history. It feels like looking at a house you’d loved once—coming back years later to find the windows broken, the garden wild, the door hanging open like a mouth with dislocated jaws.

Grandfather Moon’s voice stirs the heavy air beside me.

“The Celestial Princesses did not abandon Shen.”

I turn, heart knocking softly against my ribs.

“They returned,” he says. “Each one, reborn into the mortal world. Born not in palaces or temples, but into lives where virtue could take root quietly.”

I swallow. “Then… why—?”

He lifts a hand and, with a slow effortless gesture, time begins to move backward.

The scorched land softens, then closes up together. Trees unburn themselves. Rivers unravel their chaos and flow straight again. Cities mend. Clouds rewind into clean skies. The Celestial Tower stitches itself upward, stone by glowing stone, like a wound healing in reverse.

And the people…

I see glimpses—children laughing and running backwards in sunlit courtyards, healers binding wounds with quiet hands, musicians singing under moonlight, farmers planting rice into the rice paddies.

The sun and moon spin around the world backwards. They speed up and race in circles at dizzying speed. Eventually, the sun slows down, and pauses at sunrise.

Hope isn’t lost. It’s shining again, in this frozen moment of serenity.

Grandfather Moon speaks low and steady.

“The world forgot how to look for virtue. It sought power instead. Titles, bloodlines, survival, and desperately racing each other to their demise. Even the Celestials in the skies have given up on the mortal world.”

He looks at me—right through me, it feels like.

“And so, when the Celestial Princesses rose again… no one saw them. No one called them by their true names. But this time, they cannot face Móyuān alone. The cycle has grown too strong, the corruption too deep. They need someone to find them, to awaken their memories, to remind them of who they truly are.”

My throat feels tight. Not with fear. With something older than that. Something like… mourning.

And yet, I believe him.

I don’t know how. I don’t know why.

Maybe because when he speaks, it doesn’t feel like he’s telling me something new.

It feels like he’s reminding me of something I already know.

I tighten my hand around the strap of my bag, where the blank book presses against my side.

“So what do we do?” I ask.

Grandfather Moon smiles—not brightly, not sadly, but like a door being opened.

As he speaks, the sun resumes its rising. “We begin again.”