The streets of Zhuyin were alive with the quiet hum of the afternoon. Smoke from cooking fires drifted lazily above rooftops, and merchants called out in low voices as villagers weighed vegetables or haggled over cloth. Shen Qiyao walked among them, the weight of a small bundle in his sleeve. It was not much—just a few sticks of incense, wrapped carefully in folded paper—but to him, it carried meaning heavier than gold.
His steps led him again to the narrow lane where the bookshop lay. The little shop stood as it always did, pressed between two larger buildings, its sign faded by weather, its door leaning slightly. Yet the moment he stepped inside, the familiar hush wrapped around him like a robe.
The old man was there, seated behind the counter with his spectacles perched low on his nose. He looked up when the bell at the door gave a tired ring.
"You again," the shopkeeper said, voice carrying both welcome and curiosity. "Did the book serve you well?"
Qiyao bowed lightly, then approached the counter. From his sleeve, he brought out the bundle and laid it gently on the wood. "It did. More than well. These are thanks, made with what I learned from your book."
The old man's brows lifted. "Incense?" He untied the string with careful fingers, revealing the slender sticks within. The faint fragrance of lilies reached him even before the first was lit.
He chuckled softly. "So you truly tried. Most buy a book and let it gather dust." He reached for a small clay holder on the shelf, set one stick upright, and lit the tip.
The flame caught, then dimmed to a steady glow. Smoke curled upward, thin and silver, weaving into the still air of the shop. It carried the scent of lilies—delicate, not overwhelming, as though a garden had wandered into the room.
The old man closed his eyes briefly, breathing it in. When he opened them again, there was a faint shine behind the glass of his spectacles. "Beautiful," he said simply. "You've done what many fail to do. You made something alive."
Qiyao inclined his head, a quiet warmth rising in his chest. "It was not easy. But your book guided my hands."
The shopkeeper gave a dry laugh. "The book may have been the guide, but patience was the teacher. And you seem to have plenty of that."
For a moment, silence stretched, filled only by the soft burn of incense. The shop seemed different under its fragrance—warmer, less forgotten.
Qiyao hesitated, then spoke again. "There is something else I wished to ask. Do you have any books… on shaping clay? For making bowls, vessels?"
The old man tilted his head, thoughtful. "Clay, you say? Hm. Not many come asking for such things these days. The younger ones buy their bowls from markets, cheap and quick. But…" He rose slowly from his seat, moving with the careful steps of age, and disappeared into the back.
The minutes stretched. Dust motes floated in the pale light falling through the shop's single window. When he returned, his hands held a thin volume bound in plain cloth.
"This one has been waiting a long time," the old man said. He set it down with care. "Not a grand treatise, but enough to teach shaping, firing, and glazing in simple ways."
Qiyao touched the cover lightly, as though feeling the quiet weight of the knowledge inside. "May I?"
"Of course." The old man smiled, faint but genuine. "Perhaps you'll give it the same life you gave the other."
Qiyao placed a few coins on the counter—more than the book's worth, perhaps, but he did not speak of it. He bowed once more, gratitude wordless but clear.
As he stepped outside again, the scent of incense clung faintly to his sleeve, as though following him out into the busy street.
The sun leaned westward when Qiyao reached the modest home of the flower-picker. The small courtyard was swept clean, though the house itself bore the marks of wear—faded paint, cracked wood. Smoke drifted from a pot at the side, where a woman was stirring something over the fire.
A boy's laughter rang out as he darted past, clutching a stick as though it were a sword. He stopped short when he saw Qiyao, eyes wide.
"It's him!" the boy called, running back toward the doorway. "Ma, it's the man who brought the flowers!"
The woman turned, wiping her hands on her apron. She smiled politely, though her face was lined with tiredness. "You've come again, stranger."
Qiyao bowed. "I wished to thank you. Your directions led me to Mount Wen. Without them, I could not have found what I sought."
From his sleeve, he drew another small bundle, wrapped as before, and held it out with both hands. "These flowers gave me something precious. Let them also bring your home peace."
The woman hesitated, glancing at the bundle, then at him. "Incense?"
"Yes," Qiyao said simply.
The boy tugged at his mother's sleeve. "He promised! I told him—if he went, to bring flowers for Ma. Did you bring them?" His eyes searched Qiyao's hands eagerly.
Qiyao crouched slightly, meeting the boy's gaze. His voice softened. "I could not bring the flowers. They would not have lasted the journey. But I brought something made from them. Their scent, their spirit. Will that do?"
The boy tilted his head, puzzled, then nodded slowly. "If Ma likes it."
Qiyao smiled faintly. "Then let's see."
The woman unwrapped the bundle carefully, revealing the slender sticks. The faint fragrance reached her at once. Her expression changed—softened, as though a memory stirred.
"It smells… like Mount Wen," she murmured. She looked at Qiyao, her eyes warmer now. "Thank you."
From inside, a man's voice called weakly, "Who is it?"
The woman turned. "The traveler. The one who went to the mountain." She carried the incense inside, and Qiyao followed at her gesture.
The interior was dim, lit only by a small oil lamp. The picker lay on a mat, his face pale, breath shallow. His eyes, though tired, brightened faintly at the sight of the bundle.
The woman lit one stick and set it near the lamp. Smoke curled upward, filling the room with the gentle fragrance of lilies. The man breathed in slowly, his lips curving faintly. "It's as if the mountain came here," he whispered.
The woman sat beside him, brushing his hand. "It will bring peace."
Qiyao stood quietly, his presence unobtrusive, yet the weight of his gift filled the room.
The boy edged closer, tugging at his sleeve. "Did you really climb the mountain? Was it hard?"
Qiyao looked down, meeting the boy's wide eyes. "Yes. It was steep. I slipped, nearly lost what I carried. But sometimes, if something is worth it, you keep going."
The boy blinked, thoughtful. "Like when Ma tells me to finish my chores, even when I'm tired?"
Qiyao's mouth curved faintly. "Something like that."
The boy grinned. "Then I'll be strong too. Like you."
For a moment, Qiyao felt something stir inside him—an echo of a warmth long unfamiliar. He placed a hand gently on the boy's shoulder. "Strength can be quiet too. Remember that."
The boy nodded solemnly, as if given a secret.
The woman rose, bowing her head. "You've given more than you know. Thank you."
Qiyao shook his head lightly. "It is I who owe thanks. Without your help, I would not have found the lilies."