In the twentieth year of Zhenguan. Chang’an.

Xuanzang carried a basket of fruits and melons, climbed White Deer Plateau, and stood at the edge of the tableland gazing out at Chang’an — clouds and mist obscured the view. He walked alone across the plateau, quietly recalling how twenty-one years ago he had buried his dear friend Yuanguan on White Deer Plateau and built a grave mound for him there. Yellow earth and grey stone — easily changed by the years. Could the great mound still be standing?

Following the traces left by time, he went to search for that mound. The tableland terrain changes readily: under the scour of rivers and rain, ravines often form and alter the face of the land. After walking for a long while, Xuanzang finally identified a stretch of earth that — in its appearance — seemed to be the very place where he had once buried Yuanguan; even an old elm tree was still swaying in the wind. Looking southwest from this spot, beyond the mists and sunset haze, lay the resplendent city of Chang’an.

And yet here — there was no stone grave mound.

Xuanzang was greatly puzzled, and found an elderly shepherd wandering the hills to ask.

The old man shook his head. “Reverend Master, I have shepherded my flock in this area for several decades, and I have never seen a grave mound here.”

Xuanzang was speechless. “Old sir, do you recall that in the eighth year of Wude, a monk was buried here? I hired men from the village at the foot of the hill at the time to carry the coffin.”

“I live in the village at the foot of the hill,” the old man said. “Never mind the eighth year of Wude — from the Sui dynasty to this very day, no one from our village has ever carried a coffin up this hill to bury a monk here.”

Xuanzang opened his mouth, said nothing, and thought for a long while before finally breaking into a bitter laugh. “Ah — so that is how it is!”

He stood beneath that old elm tree, arranged the fruits and pears and peaches from his basket on the ground, lit the incense and candles he had brought, and sat cross-legged beneath the tree, gazing in silence toward Chang’an. Amid boundless thoughts, Yuanguan from twenty-one years ago was still vivid before him — rising, it seemed, through the fragrant smoke and candlelight, smiling at Xuanzang: “Elder brother, when I die — bury me on White Deer Plateau. Perhaps decades hence, you will be laid to rest there too, and at that time I will come to greet you with melons and fruit, and the music of a qin.”