Inside, the house smelled of herbs and broth simmering over the hearth. The room was small—just a table, a few stools, shelves lined with clay jars. Against one wall lay a bed, and upon it, a man rested beneath blankets. His face was pale, his breath shallow but even. A damp cloth lay across his forehead.
The woman led Qiyao to the table. "He is weak, but he can still speak," she said softly. Then, raising her voice: "Husband, a visitor has come."
The man stirred, opening his eyes. They were clouded with fatigue but alert. He struggled to sit, and the woman quickly supported him with pillows.
Qiyao stepped forward, bowing slightly. "Forgive my intrusion."
The man's lips curved faintly. "A stranger? No… I've seen you. You are the one who lives at the old shrine, yes?"
Qiyao inclined his head.
The man gave a breath that might have been a laugh. "The villagers whisper of you. But you come here with no ill, I can see that. Tell me, why seek me?"
Qiyao glanced briefly at the pot of lilies on the windowsill, then back. "The flowers. I came to ask about them."
The man's smile deepened, though it tired him. "Ah. The lilies. Even now, they draw strangers."
He shifted slightly, his voice quieter but steady. "They grow on Mount Wen. On the shaded slopes where the streams cut through the rocks. No one planted them. They return each year, stubborn as memory. My father gathered them before me, and his father before him. So it has been for generations."
His eyes softened, distant. "At dawn, the mist lies heavy there. The lilies gleam white against the green, like stars fallen to the earth. Their fragrance rises strongest then—sharp, sweet, lingering. That is when I pick them, before the sun burns it away."
Qiyao listened in silence, the man's words shaping a picture as vivid as if he stood on the mountain himself.
"But the climb is not easy," the man continued. "The path winds steep, the stones are loose, and the streams swift. Many think it foolish to go for mere flowers. Yet each year, I go. For without them, the village would feel unguarded."
He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again. "Now I am ill, and none else dares the journey. That is why the stalls are empty."
The woman at his side adjusted the cloth on his forehead, her expression troubled. "Rest, husband. You speak too much."
But he shook his head faintly. "If this man has come, he should know." His gaze returned to Qiyao. "You seek the lilies. Do you mean to climb Mount Wen?"
Qiyao's voice was quiet, steady. "If I must."
The man studied him, as if weighing the truth of his resolve. At last, he gave a small nod. "Then listen. The path begins at the river's bend, where the willows grow thick. Cross the stones there. Follow the sound of the stream upward. When the air grows colder, and the bamboo gives way to pine, you will find them. The lilies gather where water drips from rock, where shade is deepest. Do not search the open slopes. They hide where others do not look."
The woman frowned, turning to Qiyao. "It is dangerous. He makes it sound simple, but it is not. The mountain does not welcome strangers. Even strong men have lost their way."
Qiyao bowed his head slightly. "I will take care."
The man smiled faintly. "Care alone will not carry you. But perhaps patience will."
The boy who had first seen Qiyao peeked from behind his mother's sleeve. He clutched a half-carved stick in his hand, his eyes wide with curiosity. "Will you really go?" he asked.
Qiyao looked at him, his expression calm. "Yes."
"Then bring back a flower," the boy said earnestly. "For Ma. She likes them best."
The woman hushed him gently, but her eyes softened.
Qiyao reached into the pouch at his side and set a small bundle on the table—rice wrapped in cloth, bought the day before. He placed a few coins beside it. "For your household," he said simply.
The woman looked startled. "We cannot take—"
But the man raised a hand, silencing her. His eyes lingered on Qiyao, steady and knowing. "Let him. It is his way of thanks."
Qiyao inclined his head once more. "For your guidance."
The man's lips curved in a weary smile. "Then may the mountain be kind to you."
When Qiyao stepped outside again, the sun was high, the yard bright. The wheel of the mill creaked steadily, water rushing beneath it. In the house behind him, the faint scent of broth drifted through the air.
He looked toward the distant line of mountains, their peaks veiled in haze. Somewhere among them, Mount Wen waited, holding the flowers he sought.
Qiyao adjusted the strap of his pouch, his expression calm but certain. The path had revealed itself. Soon, his waiting would carry him beyond the grove, into the mountain's silence.
That evening, when Qiyao returned to the shrine, he did not light the brazier right away. He set down his pouch quietly and stood for a long moment at the veranda, listening to the bamboo bend in the dusk wind.
The mountain waited.
He felt it in the stillness, in the hush between each gust of air. Mount Wen was no place for haste. If he were to climb, he would need to prepare with care, as one would for a long prayer.