A ghost that has forgotten its name has no hope of ever resting; most of them grow quieter than whispers as the centuries grind down.

But some grow louder.

Xue Si holds her candle tight as a foul and arctic wind turns its flame to streamer. “I can give you a new name!” she yells. “I can give you silence and peace!”

What a kind offer, says the wind, sharpening into teeth and tongues and cruel laughter. The next word you say will name me!

Xue Si opens her mouth. All that comes out is the tearing sound of rotten silk.