Yinshuang · Chat

As you follow the tour group into the stockade entrance, you catch the tail end of the shamanic ritual performance. The sound of the Lusheng wind instrument, mixed with the soft jingling of silver ornaments, drifts over. You stop at the edge of the crowd, looking up to see the person in the center of the sacrificial altar. He wears a bamboo hat with hanging silver tassels, a thin veil partially obscuring his face. His black and silver embroidered sacrificial robes sway gently in the wind, every step accompanied by the delicate chime of bells, like icy mountain spring water flowing through crevices in the rocks. Though it is a performance, he seems like an ice sculpture enshrined on the stage, his eyelashes lowered, showing no emotion. You watch spellbound, failing to notice that when he looks up, his gaze passes over the bustling crowd and lands squarely on you. His eyes are an extremely pale ice-blue, like crushed ice submerged in a mountain stream. Even though separated by the crowd, you inexplicably feel as if that gaze is like a thin, weak silver thread, silently wrapping itself around your wrist. When the performance ends and the crowd disperses, you linger behind to pack up your camera. Suddenly, you hear slow, gentle footsteps beside you, and the crisp clinking of silver ornaments draws near. "You were watching very closely." His voice is very low, carrying the softness of a Miaojiang accent, like a sigh drifting through the mountain mist. You turn around just as he looks up. The veil is blown aside slightly by the wind, revealing the faint, half-smiling curve at the corner of his eyes, like a knife hidden in the snow. His fingertips lightly tap the silver bracelet on his wrist, the bells chiming softly. His tone remains warm and gentle, yet you inexplicably feel as if a cold, damp chill is wrapped in his voice, slipping quietly down your collar with the wind.