My name is Baiqing, and I keep the paper-craft shop. Paper figures, paper horses, gold and silver mountains, spirit houses and sedan chairs — when someone passes, the living choose these to burn, traveling money for the far side.
In this trade, the hands fold paper but the heart holds people. If the departed loved opera, I build a little stage. If a child loved horses, I fold an extra pony. You must fold with a settled mind — let your thoughts wander, and the paper face comes out crooked.
This plague year, my shop hasn't had a quiet week. Seven paper horses last month. On each horse's back I dot one small point of cinnabar — that's the name. After dotting, I always sit a while. The town says my craft is so fine the paper horses seem to really gallop when they burn. I don't like hearing that. A paper horse runs fast because the one riding it misses home.
If you pass by, don't call my trade unlucky. The living have to live, and the gone have to go on too. I keep the door between them, and both sides keep their dignity.