The night was still when Shen Qiyao set the clay manual on the low table. The cover was worn, edges curled, and faint smudges of earth stained the corners of the pages. The innkeeper had said it was an old tradesman's book, nothing refined. Yet when Qiyao opened it beneath the oil lamp's glow, it felt as though he were opening the door to another discipline, another way of shaping the world.
The pages bore more than text: sketches of bowls, uneven but careful, diagrams showing hands pressing clay, notes scribbled in cramped script about firing temperatures and patience. Some places were blurred, as if damp fingers had turned them often.
Qiyao traced one line with his fingertip. "Clay is stubborn, but patience makes it yield. Impatience will only break it."
He read on, absorbing each instruction. Gather clay from a riverbank or lowland where water runs slow and deposits silt. Soak to loosen grit and stones. Knead to press out air. Shape by hand or tool. Let dry in shade, not sun. Fire with steady flame.
Simple steps, written without ornament. Yet Qiyao studied them like scripture. His mind, once trained in lines of poetry and ink, moved with the same quiet attention now over clay.
Beside the book, he laid out what he would need. An old basket he had found abandoned behind the shrine, its weave loose but serviceable. A small knife with a worn handle, meant once for trimming bamboo shoots. A gourd for water. Old cloth to bind or wipe. He set them neatly in a row, his motions precise.
His hands, scarred from other labors, turned palm-up in the lamplight. These hands once held a sword. Now they will shape bowls. He flexed his fingers slowly, as if testing whether they could learn gentleness again.
By the time he closed the book, dawn was not far. The lamp sputtered low, shadows deepened, and silence lay thick around the shrine. Qiyao placed the book beside him, bowed his head once to the still air, and prepared for morning.
At first light, Qiyao set out with his basket slung over one shoulder, knife tucked at his side. The village still slept; smoke had not yet risen from hearths. He walked past the empty fields and down toward the river, where mist clung low to the reeds.
The river here curved gently, its water clear but slow, carrying silt to the bends. Birds skimmed the surface, calling in short cries, and minnows darted near the shallows. Qiyao crouched at the edge, the cool breath of water dampening his skin.
He pressed his fingers into the riverbank, feeling the give of earth beneath. It was softer here, rich and pliable. He dug deeper, scooping the clay into his palms. The texture was cool, slick, and heavy, clinging to his skin as though reluctant to be taken. The smell rose—wet earth, mineral, faintly metallic.
His movements were slow, deliberate. Scoop, press into the basket, smooth with water. His mind wandered as he worked: to the boy's wide-eyed eagerness, to the lilies swaying on Mount Wen, to the silence of the shrine that was not quite empty.
Once, his hand slipped against a hidden stone. The sharp edge cut into his palm, blood welling at once, bright against the clay. He paused, flexing his hand, watching the red mingle with brown.
Then he continued. Pain was a familiar companion; it did not deter him. He bound the cut with cloth, pressed his hand back into the mud, and kept scooping until the basket grew heavy.
Hours passed. The sun lifted higher, scattering mist, glinting off ripples. Sweat dampened his brow, but he did not stop until the basket brimmed with clay. Only then did he rise, shoulders straining under the weight, and begin the walk back.
Behind him, the river flowed on, as though indifferent to what had been taken.
At the shrine, Qiyao carried the basket into the courtyard. He spread cloth on the ground, tipped the clay out, and began the work described in the manual.
First, soak. He poured water into a wide basin, breaking the lumps apart with his fingers. The clay clouded the water, heavy and thick. He stirred slowly, letting grit and pebbles sink. Then, kneeling, he reached in to lift the soft mass, squeezing it, pressing water out, setting aside the clean portions.
His hands moved rhythmically, the same patience he once used in copying lines of calligraphy. The clay stuck to his skin, drying in cracks as he kneaded it on the cloth. He pressed with his palms, folded, pressed again, forcing out air bubbles, rolling the mass until smooth.
Then came shaping. He pinched a portion, rolled it between his palms, flattened the base, coaxed walls upward. The manual said: "Let the clay rise under your hands, not by force but by guidance."
His first bowl collapsed at once, walls sagging outward. The second cracked where the base met the side. The third held longer, but tilted until lopsided, its rim uneven.
Qiyao did not curse. He set each attempt gently aside, lining them on the veranda. Failures, yes—but also steps. Each collapse taught him weight, balance, thickness.
Again he tried. Knead, pinch, shape. Some bowls lasted until half-dry before splitting. Others crumbled when he smoothed the rim. Soon the veranda bore a small army of broken vessels, crooked and humble, but proof of effort.
The shrine felt different with them there. Once, it had been bare stone and silence. Now, rows of imperfect bowls leaned against one another, as if the space itself were learning to breathe again.
One evening, after the sun had dropped low and incense curled from the burner, Qiyao paused in his work. His gaze lingered on a butterfly drifting near the veranda, wings pale yellow, delicate against the deepening sky.
Memory stirred—the valley where the boy had chased butterflies, the lilies gathered on Mount Wen, their scent rising in smoke to bridge the unseen.
Quietly, Qiyao picked up a half-shaped bowl. With the blunt end of his knife, he pressed a pattern into the side: two curved wings, simple but clear. On another, he traced the outline of a lily petal, smoothing its edge into the clay.
The symbols were not decoration for beauty's sake. They were gestures of devotion, like whispered prayers.
He pressed lilies, butterflies, and even small waves into the clay, each shape deliberate. These were not mere vessels for food or water—they were offerings, messages formed in earth.
From then on, his rhythm deepened. Mornings tending the small patch of vegetables he had planted. Afternoons shaping clay, pressing symbols. Evenings lighting incense, waiting.
The shrine grew fuller. Clay bowls lined the veranda, each carrying a mark of patience. Some were lopsided, others fragile. But among them, a few began to hold their form, steady and whole.