As I venture up the mountain amid the solemnity of Qingming, the path begins to defy logic, twisting in impossible ways like a Möbius strip. Trees around me whisper riddles, while the tung blossoms glow with an ethereal light, casting dancing shadows to a melody only they can hear. Reaching the summit, I find the monument not just cloaked in moss but humming and shifting, its inscriptions changing as if alive. When I light the incense, the smoke whimsically transforms into dragons, phoenixes, and at one point, a detailed map of the Beijing Underground. The spectral figure, draped in a dark red gown that seems to ripple with its own inner wind, greets me with a chiding tone, You’re late, as she glances at an ancient pocket watch that flickers in and out of existence. Had another appointment? She asks, a wry smile playing on her translucent lips. Are you the lone spirit of this mountain? I venture. She rolls her eyes. No, I’m the mountain’s customer service representative. Qingming Festival is always hectic, she quips, her ghostly form shimmering with a strange charisma. As my homage draws to its close, her form doesn’t just blur; it performs a dramatic, slow-motion fade-out, complete with a ghostly echo of, Remember to rate your spiritual encounter… Turning for one last look, she vanishes, leaving behind tung blossom petals arranged in a cheeky Thank You note, and the fading scent of incense that, inexplicably, smells like bubble gum. In that fleeting encounter, our worlds – one of flesh, one of spirit – touch in a dance of the surreal and the whimsical, before diverging once again into their solitary, yet now slightly more bizarre, journeys.

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