There was once a small village nestled deep in the mountains.
Tucked between ancient trees and the whisper of wind, it was a quiet place where nightfall brought stillness, and lamps were blown out with a gentle breath.

One family lived in a single-room thatched house, as simple as it was peaceful.
The husband slept near the door, the wife at the farthest end, and between them—like a warm comma in the pause of life—their child lay sleeping.

That night, the moon was pale and veiled in cloud.
Even the wind held its breath, as if nature sensed something drawing near.
And something was drawing near.

Out of the mountain’s shadow came a tiger, silent as smoke.
It nudged the door open, stepped inside, and with terrifying grace walked over the husband, past the child, and straight toward the sleeping woman.

The husband saw everything.
At first, he thought he was dreaming—how could such a thing be real?
But he could not move. Not a finger, not a breath.
Frozen, he watched as the tiger clamped its jaws gently, almost reverently, around his wife and carried her away.

Only when the tiger passed through the thatched gate did he manage to whisper,
“Ti… tiger…”

Then he screamed.

The village came running, barefoot and breathless, lanterns in hand.
Together, they searched through the hills, up over a low ridge and into the thickets.
All they found was a torn piece of skirt caught on a branch, and a strand of blood-soaked hair.

No one spoke—until one elder murmured,
“Some fates… belong to the tiger.”

And that was all.

The mountain said nothing.
The wind turned colder.

From that day on, the villagers began holding a ritual for the taken—offering bowls of red bean porridge to appease restless spirits and ward off misfortune.
Red beans, they believed, could keep evil at bay.

Every year, on the same night, families would gather quietly, cook the porridge, and place it in the yard under the moonlight.
Heads would bow in silence, as if listening for something on the wind.

And the mountain?
It stood as still as ever, as if cradling secrets in its stone belly.

Even now, they say, when the wind howls just so, and the moon feels too distant,
someone in the village might glance at the trees and ask,
“Could it be tonight?”