Legends in the mountain villages spoke of Old Jade—not a person, but a stone. It was a charm passed from hand to hand for generations, believed to carry a quiet sort of wisdom. The stone looked ordinary enough: smooth on one side, streaked with pale green veins on the other. But those who held it swore they felt something like a pulse, faint as a distant drumbeat. Some said it guided people when they were unsure; others believed it simply amplified what was already in their hearts.
Mara had never believed in charms, blessings, or silent magic. She trusted rain, because you could feel it. She trusted wind, because it pushed you. And she trusted her own strength, because it had carried her through years of loneliness. Yet on the morning the storm rolled over the valley, she found herself drawn toward the old shrine at the edge of town—a place she had avoided since childhood.
It was there she found the jade.
Someone had left it atop the stone altar, glistening with raindrops. Next to it lay an infant wrapped in a coarse blanket, the tiny bundle trembling from the cold wind that cut beneath the shrine’s roof. Mara froze at the sight, her breath catching somewhere between surprise and fear. She had never cared for children, nor thought herself capable of it, yet here was a baby exposed to the storm, small fists curled as though the world had already wronged it.
She whispered, “Who left you here?”
Of course, the child did not answer. Only the rain did, falling harder now, drumming on the shrine’s wooden eaves like a warning.
Mara glanced around. The hilltop was empty. No footprints beyond her own. Whoever abandoned the baby was already gone.
She stepped forward slowly, as if a single sudden movement might shatter the moment. Her fingers hovered above the blanket, then reached for the jade stone instead. It was warm—impossibly warm—despite being soaked in the cold storm. For a moment she imagined she felt a subtle vibration moving softly beneath its surface.
“Old Jade,” she murmured, remembering the stories her grandmother once told. A stone that reveals what you hide from yourself.
The infant let out a small whimper. It was not loud, not desperate—just enough to break something open inside Mara. The sound felt like a plea, but also like an invitation.
She knelt beside the child. “I’m not good at this,” she said. “I don’t even know if you want me here.”
When she lifted the blanket’s corner, she saw the baby’s eyes—wide, dark, searching. It was as if the child wasn’t afraid of her at all. Instead, it was she who felt afraid: of responsibility, of uncertainty, of feeling something she had long kept buried.
The storm surged, wind howling through the trees. Mara realized she had no choice but to act. Whether or not she believed in the jade’s power, she could not leave a helpless child to the rain.
With slow determination, she gathered the infant into her arms. The child was lighter than she expected, fragile but warm. As she stood, the jade charm slipped from her grasp but caught on the edge of the blanket, resting gently atop the baby’s chest.
The stone glowed—just faintly, almost too soft to see. Mara blinked, unsure whether it was the light or her imagination, but the sight filled her with an unexpected calm.
“Okay,” she said softly, adjusting the blanket around the infant. “We’re going.”
She descended the hill, the rain soaking her hair and clothes. Yet she no longer felt cold. Each step felt steadier than the last, as though the weight in her arms anchored her to something she had long been missing: purpose.
By the time she reached the village, neighbors rushed toward her with questions—Who was the child? Where had she found it? Was she hurt? Mara had no answers for them. All she knew was the truth rising quietly inside her: that she could not walk away from this child now. Whether it was fate, luck, or the whispering of Old Jade, she felt a certainty stronger than fear.
