Inside the shrine, he unrolled his mat and laid out the things he already owned: a small knife, his ink brush, the jade pendant, scraps of cloth. He studied them, then set them aside. These were not enough.
So he began to gather what would be needed.
He took the small hammer he had bought from the market, tested its weight, and wrapped it in cloth. Nails, too, he slipped into a pouch, thinking they might serve for mending along the way. From his bundles of rice, he measured out enough for several days, tying each portion into little packets of cloth. Beside them, he set dried greens, a pinch of salt, and the last of the dried radish Granny Xuemei had once given him.
At the brazier, he stirred the coals and warmed a pot of water. Steam rose, curling against the roof beams. He lowered strips of cloth into the hot water, letting them soften, then hung them to dry on the veranda rail. Bandages, should he need them.
When the cloths swayed in the breeze, he sat and pulled his shoes toward him. The soles were worn thin from walks to the village. With careful stitches, he patched them using thread from his kit, each pull of the needle slow but steady. The leather resisted, but he did not rush. He worked until the shoes were firm again, fit for a mountain path.
As night fell, fireflies drifted beyond the veranda. Qiyao lit a small stick of ordinary incense—not the lilies, not yet—and placed it in the burner on his low table. Smoke curled upward, faint and earthy. He watched it rise as he laid out his tools: a small knife sharpened to a fine edge, a waterskin, an empty pouch for herbs.
Beside them, he set the old manual of incense-making. Its worn pages caught the light, the brush-written characters steady despite age. He turned one page slowly, reading again the lines he had already memorized:
"To gather the essence of a flower, seek it in its strongest hour. Do not cut in haste. Let the stem rest, let the petal dry, let the air speak before the flame does."
He closed the book and rested his hand upon it. The lilies were not only flowers; they were a bridge. He felt it in his chest. If the mountain held them, he must go.
Before sleeping, he stepped outside once more. The grove swayed in the night wind, bamboo knocking softly together. Overhead, the moon was pale and round.
He bowed lightly toward the direction of the mountain. It was not prayer, not exactly. More a promise.
At dawn, Qiyao rose early. He washed in the basin, the water cool against his face, and tied his hair back neatly. The air was sharp, carrying the scent of bamboo and damp soil.
He packed slowly, layer by layer:
Rice packets, wrapped and tied.Dried greens and salt.Hammer and nails.Knife, brush, cloth strips.The book.
He placed them in his bundle, securing each with knots he had practiced many times. When all was in place, he lifted the pack to his back. It was not heavy, but it was steady.
On the low table, the bowl of lilies from the market still rested in water. Their petals had begun to curl, their fragrance dimmer than before. He touched one lightly, then let it go.
"You have carried me this far," he murmured softly, though his voice was hardly more than a breath. "Now I must seek the rest."
He took one petal and slipped it into the manual, pressing it flat between pages. A marker. A memory.
Before leaving, he prepared a simple meal: rice warmed with radish and greens. He ate quietly, then cleaned the bowl and set it upon the altar once more.
Finally, he lit a single incense stick—the last of his failed attempts, one that burned crooked and uneven. The smoke drifted weakly, breaking apart before it rose high. Qiyao watched it, his gaze calm.
"Wait for me," he whispered.
When he stepped from the shrine, the sun was climbing through the trees, painting the bamboo in pale gold. The path to the village stretched ahead, familiar and yet leading to something far beyond.
He adjusted the strap of his pack, his patched shoes firm against the earth, and began to walk.
Each step carried him closer—not only to Mount Wen, but to the truth that lay veiled in its mist.
" The shrine would wait in silence. The grove would watch as it always did.
Ahead lay the river, the bend, and beyond it—the slopes of Mount Wen, veiled in mist. Somewhere upon its stones bloomed the flowers he sought, as patient as stars waiting for night.
Qiyao did not quicken his pace. Each step was steady, deliberate, as though he already knew: the journey itself was part of the offering.
And so, with the scent of lilies pressed between the pages of an old book, he walked forward "....