There is movement at the corner of my eye. A blur of white, a frightened animal sort of white, skittish.
I concentrate on making paper ingots. Grandma has roped in all her sun zi for this tradition. My hands make tubes and fold in the corners and toss the ingot into the huge plastic bag. There has been an accident nearby, a few months ago. Spirits linger, they say and place plates of offerings, burn paper money to appease them.
It is a little girl, they also add.
I gaze down, careful not to step on the offerings. Grandma is often stern with that warning to all her grandchildren, even a grown-up like me.
Footprints. Like cat paw prints, circling the spots of white burnt ashes and paper plates with sweets. Smaller, though, like rabbit. I had a rabbit once and once it hopped through spilled flour.
She is here. She has been here.
My fingers fold the paper, my thoughts inward. There will be fire tonight, bright orange and red, sending money to the netherworld.
I will wait for the rabbit prints.