Autumn, as they prepare for the harsh winter ahead, the unicorns grow coats of shimmering golden fur. The horn upon each forehead becomes whiter than snow. They wash their hooves in the icy river, stretch their necks to nibble crimson berries, and chew the leaves of golden ginkgo trees.
It is a beautiful season.
Standing atop the watchtower built along the city walls, I wait for the evening horn.
Just before sunset, the horn is sounded—one long note followed by three short ones. Such is the custom.
The mellow call glides over the stone-paved streets, fading into the dusk. Perhaps for hundreds of years—perhaps for so long that time itself can no longer remember—that melody has remained unchanged, repeated day after day. It seeps into every crack between the stone walls, into the rows of statues lining the town square, until every household seems steeped in its resonance.
When the horn echoes through the town, the unicorns all turn toward an ancient memory and raise their heads.
Some stop chewing the leaves.
Some cease tapping the stones with their hooves.
Others awaken from their final nap beneath the warm evening sun.
Each one lifts its head to exactly the same angle.
For a brief instant, everything freezes like a sculpture.
If anything still moves, it is only the soft golden fur upon their bodies, swaying gently in the wind.
Yet, what are they looking at?
Without stirring, the unicorns twist their necks toward the same direction, gazing into the sky, ears tilted, listening intently as the horn’s echoes drift back.
When the final lingering note dissolves into the air and becomes one with the birdsong, they rise, tuck in their forelegs, or straighten themselves, adjusting their posture before almost simultaneously beginning to walk.
The brief enchantment is broken, and soon the town’s streets once again surrender to the rhythm of countless unicorn hooves.
The unicorns proceed in long, winding lines along the curved stone roads.
There is no leader, nor any apparent destination. Silently, they wait until the last trace of the horn’s echo disappears into the vault of heaven.
There must be no fewer than a thousand of them.
Thus another day in the little town draws to its close.
Time flows onward. Seasons change.
And yet light and the seasons are, in the end, only an illusion.
For the town’s true time exists somewhere else.
I have been living in the town with unicorns for years. The unicorns refresh every year, but I have kept the same situation and have never changed.
Writer – Max Mao
Editor – Lakshya Narooka
Artist – Maryam Nawaz
–August 2026–
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