The Maple Letter
A merchant's wife whose son died among strangers finds each deep autumn maple leaves falling at her eaves, bearing in blood the words your son is well. She keeps them till her box is full; when she dies the leaves turn to ash, save one at the bottom reading I have come for mother.
A merchant's wife, surnamed Zhou, had a son who traded in Jing-Chu and died among strangers, his bones not to be brought home. Each deep autumn, maple leaves fell of themselves beneath Zhou's eaves, and on them faint characters could be made out; wiping them, one read "your son is well, mother do not worry," six words the color of clotted blood. Zhou wept and kept them, and the box slowly filled.
So for a dozen autumns. When Zhou died, the falling leaves ceased. Those who came after opened the box; the leaves had all turned to ash, save one at the bottom still whole, bearing the words "I have come for mother."
The Chronicler of the Strange says: Mother and son are joined at the heart; not even life and death can come between. The son died among strangers, his soul clinging to his mother's eaves, using the leaf as paper to send word of peace into the world below; the mother kept the leaves as she would her son's letters, never parting with them to her death. You who, fed and clothed, abandon your kin, or forget your parents in wealth — before these maple letters, can you not blush? The leaf falls to its root, but the thought of filial love does not fall — in the smallest thing is seen the greatest feeling.