The first light of dawn seeped into the shrine, thin and pale, slipping between the wooden shutters. Birds stirred in the bamboo outside, their calls cutting gently through the hush.
Shen Qiyao opened his eyes.
For a moment, he did not move. His body lay still upon the mat, hair scattered loose across the pillow, the faint ache of the climb lingering in his muscles. The night before lingered too—the silver touch of moonlight, the cool water against his skin, the way the air itself had seemed to pause around him.
He sat up slowly, drawing his hair back from his face. Strands clung still damp against his shoulders, though now they were softer, the tangles gone. His leg throbbed faintly as he shifted, a sharp reminder of the slip on the mountain path. He pressed a hand against it briefly, steadying the ache, then rose.
The lilies lay in their bundle upon the low table. He had left them there the night before, unwilling to place them anywhere else. Now, in the early light, their white bells gleamed like frost. Dew still clung faintly to their petals, caught from the mountain air, and their fragrance filled the shrine more richly than before—soft, sweet, almost luminous.
Qiyao stood before them a long moment. His face was unreadable, but his eyes lingered on the blossoms with a depth that words could not touch.
He unwrapped the bundle carefully, arranging the stems in a wide clay bowl filled with water. The lilies floated, their green stems submerged, their white bells rising like stars upon the surface.
When the last stem was placed, he sat cross-legged before them. He did not speak, but his gaze was steady, as if in their presence silence itself was enough.
Afterward, he turned to his tasks.
From the brazier, he warmed a pot of water, steam curling upward as the fire crackled. He set rice to cook, adding a pinch of salt, and chopped the last of his dried radish into thin slices. His movements were slow this morning, deliberate—not sluggish, but softened, as though he carried within him the calm of the night past.
While the rice steamed, he fetched the cloth strips he had boiled and dried days before. Taking them to the veranda, he sat upon the step and began to bind his leg. The bruise had darkened overnight, swelling faintly at the shin. His fingers pressed the cloth firm around it, tying the knot neatly, the way one might tie a brush roll.
He tested his weight carefully, standing, shifting. The ache remained, but the wrap steadied it.
The rice was ready when he returned inside. He filled a bowl, sat by the veranda, and ate quietly. Outside, the bamboo swayed in the morning breeze, scattering dew like beads of glass.
When he had finished, he did not put the bowl aside at once. Instead, he rinsed it, refilled it with fresh water, and placed it beside the bowl of lilies on the table.
An offering.
It was not elaborate—not fruits, not meat, not wine. Only plain water, clean and still. Yet when he set it there, he did so with care, aligning it beside the blossoms as though completing a pair.
For a long moment, he sat with it, watching the faint ripples in the water. Then he leaned back slightly, exhaling.
The shrine felt different this morning. The night had left something behind, faint but present, as though the air itself had changed.
Later, he drew the old incense manual toward him. The pressed lily petal within its pages had dried further overnight, fragile now between the paper. He touched it lightly, then turned the leaf, rereading the lines.
"Do not rush the flower. Dry it in shade, let its breath linger in the air. Grind it with patience, not force. Bind with resin until it holds like memory. Burn not too quickly. Let it rest first, as all things must rest."
He traced the words with his finger. Last time, he had hurried, eager to shape incense before the petals were ready. This time, he would not.
He rose, selected a handful of lilies from the bowl, and set them aside on a flat board near the window, where the morning air drifted cool. He spread them carefully, petal by petal, letting each rest without overlap.
The rest he left in the water, alive a little longer.
By mid-morning, sunlight filtered stronger through the grove, painting shifting patterns upon the floorboards. Qiyao swept the veranda, the soft swish of straw bristles steady and measured. He fetched water from the jar, refilled the basin, washed his hands and face once more.
Each act was small, ordinary. Yet each carried a weight, a rhythm that was his own.
When at last he sat again before the lilies, the shrine seemed wholly different from the day before. Not lifeless. Not waiting. But alive, breathing with him.
Qiyao gazed at the blossoms, the white bells swaying faintly in the morning air, and for the first time in many days, the tightness in his chest eased.
He lowered his head slightly, almost as though bowing.
"Wait with me," he murmured.
The words were soft, barely spoken, but the lilies seemed to hear.
That night would come, and with it, perhaps, another attempt at incense. For now, it was enough that morning had arrived, that the flowers lay before him, and that the air of the shrine carried their fragrance like a promise.
The morning light filtered through the bamboo grove, casting delicate patterns across the shrine's wooden floor. Shen Qiyao rose with the ache still lingering in his leg, a dull throb that pulsed with each step. He moved slowly, his movements deliberate as he tied his hair back, the damp strands brushing his shoulders. The bruise on his shin, bound tightly with cloth, steadied him, though the pain reminded him of the mountain's steep embrace. Outside, the air carried the faint scent of dew and earth, grounding him in the quiet rhythm of the day.
The day unfolded in small tasks—sweeping the veranda, fetching water from the jar, tending the cloth strips on his leg. Each act was a thread in the fabric of his new life here, woven with the shrine's silence. By afternoon, he turned to the manual again, spreading the dried lilies on a flat board. His fingers worked slowly, crumbling the petals into a fine powder, mixing them with resin from a small vial he had carried from the village. The scent rose, sharp yet sweet, and he paused, closing his eyes. Is this what you left behind? he wondered. A fragrance to bind us?
He pictured the lilies drying by the window, their pale forms curling into memory, and a quiet resolve settled in his chest. Patience is its own offering, he thought. If this scent can call him back, I will master it.