He settled to telling her small stories, the ones about days of watching farming, of going to harvest lotuses from the rivers and lakes, of games in shooting arrows at kites, the nice memories of years gone past. Not exciting as she'd asked, but the exciting stories so often are a mixture of pain and otherwise, and life, living memories, those are the light ones he wants to bring into this forest of the dead and the angry.

Bones laid to rest in a grave deep enough not to wash away, stones piled over to keep the animals from digging the dry bones free. It was after, having said whatever words pass as important, that they turn toward other duties, such as finding the rest who'd come to the forest, and leaving: alive.