It had 一 dirt road, 一 well, and not very many 人. The villagers kept goats. They grew rice. In the evenings they sat on their doorsteps and told the same stories they had told the night before.

Nothing in the village was new, and nothing in the village ever changed — except for a 小 child named Lin, who had been asking questions since the day Lin could speak.

Each 日, before the sun had climbed above the eastern 山, Lin's 妈妈 would already be at the stove.

"早, 小 Lin," she would say, without turning around. "Come and eat before the rice gets cold." Lin would tumble down from the sleeping loft, hair sticking out in all directions, and arrive at the table with a question ready.

The questions were always 大. "妈妈, what is on the other side of the 山?" "妈妈, where does the river go?" "妈妈, why is the sky blue 一 day and grey the next?"

Her 妈妈 would laugh, every time, and 说 the same thing. "There are other 山, 小 one. There is a 大 river that goes to a 大 sea.

There is a city where ten thousand 人 live, and the 月 rises over its walls each night the same as it rises over ours." She would stir the pot once, slowly.

"But what I do 不 know — and what the 老 人 of the village do 不 know — and what 不 living person has ever known — is what lives at the top of our own 山."

That morning, Lin did 不 finish breakfast.

Lin sat very still, holding the wooden spoon, and 看 out the open door at the 山. The 山 was always there, of course. Every 日 of Lin's 小 life it had been there — blue in the morning, green at noon, black at dusk. But for the first time, Lin 看 it differently.

Not as part of the sky. As a place. A place with a top.

A place where 一 小 person might, perhaps, climb 上. Lin's 妈妈 did 不 notice when Lin slipped out the door.

Out in the yard, head tilted back, looking and looking and looking at the peak, Lin 想 very quietly: "I 想 to know."

Lin did 不 say a word to 妈妈 about the plan. Lin 想 about it all 日 long, sitting under the old plum tree, looking 上 at the 山 and 想 about what was up there. By evening Lin had made a 小 list. A bag. Some rice.

水. 一 blanket against the night cold. And shoes — Lin had only 一 pair of shoes, and they were already 老 and full of holes, but they would have to do.

Lin 看 around the small 家 and 想, very quietly: "I will 去 before the sun comes 上. 妈妈 will 不 know until I am already on the 山."

The next morning the sky was 不 yet light. The 月 still hung over the 山 like a pale, half-closed eye. Lin slipped out of bed without making a sound, picked up the small bag, and 看 once at the sleeping shape of 妈妈 by the stove.

Then Lin opened the 门 and stepped out into the cold, cold air. The village was 不 awake. 不 a single 人 was on the road.

Lin 走, 小 boots crunching on frost, all the way down the 一 dirt road, past the well, past the last 家, and toward the great dark shape of the 山.

Above, the 天 was beginning to turn grey.

By the time the 天 was fully light, Lin had reached the foot of the 山. Up close, the 山 was much, much bigger than it had ever looked from the village.

It was 大 in a way that made Lin's 心 feel very 小.

The peak was hidden 高 up in the clouds, somewhere Lin could 不 see.

A thin, stony 路 curved away from the road and disappeared into the trees. Lin stood there for a long moment, just looking 上. Then Lin 想 about 妈妈, and 想 about the warm 家 with its rice and its old wooden 门, and 想 about how easy it would be to turn back.

But Lin had said, "I 想 to know." And once a thing is said, even quietly, it cannot be unsaid. Lin took 一 step onto the 路, and then another, and began to climb.