A piece catches his attention, and he crouches down to look at the familiar symbol. The crescent moon and its shadow, two parts of one whole, lie on the ground at Qiao Xiu’s feet, moss half-concealing them. Qiao Xiu grabs the shard, unable not to. It’s warm with the half-day sun, and he clutches it tightly in his palm, tears prickling in the back of his throat. How many artworks can Weil make from the Temple Ghosts?