As his hands worked the clay one late afternoon, Qiyao murmured under his breath, voice barely more than the rustle of leaves.
"If incense can reach you… perhaps these will too."
He smoothed the rim of a bowl, his cut palm now healed but scarred faintly. "If not… then I will try again."
He did not raise his voice, but the words hung in the air like vows.
The silence seemed to shift, not answering but not empty either. As though something unseen leaned closer, listening.
Qiyao continued, steady. "Each bowl, each mark—these are not for me. If you refuse them, then I will make more. Until one is worthy."
His hands pressed the clay firm, shaping devotion into form.
By nightfall, rows of bowls dried on the veranda. Moonlight fell across them, pale against clay, casting long shadows on the old wood.
Beside them, incense burned, its smoke curling over the vessels as though blessing them.
Qiyao stood in the doorway, gazing at his work. His face betrayed no triumph, no despair. Only quiet resolve.
He bowed his head lightly, whispering into the still air, "I'll keep trying. Until they are worthy of you."
The bamboo grove stirred, leaves rustling softly. The shrine did not reply. Yet the silence felt less empty than before—as if it were no longer only his own.
And in that stillness, Qiyao felt, faintly, that someone was listening.
The sky deepened, stars scattered like faint embers across the dark. Qiyao let the silence fold over him and, at last, lay down upon his thin mat. Moonlight drifted through the veranda, painting pale lines across his chest and shoulders. For the first time in a long while, sleep came without struggle, as though the night itself had accepted him into its keeping.
When dawn broke, sunlight slipped past the eaves and spilled across him. It touched his lashes, warming the curve of his cheek, sliding down his shoulders where faint scars crossed his skin like hidden stories. His breath was steady, his body still, until the warmth coaxed him awake.
He rubbed his eyes, sitting upright, legs still folded beneath him. His hair fell loose around his shoulders, catching the light in dark strands. For a brief moment, it seemed the sun itself paused to linger, gilding the ridges of his collarbones, tracing the faint pale scars across his back and arms—marks of battles unspoken, chapters never told.
Qiyao's gaze moved outward, toward the veranda where he had left the bowls the night before. They sat in a neat row, pale and unburnt, waiting. He exhaled slowly. "I may have slept too much. No matter." A faint curve touched his lips. "For once, it feels like breathing—not just filling my lungs, but truly breathing."
He rose, straight-backed, and padded toward the veranda. Shirtless, barefoot, his frame was lean but unyielding, every movement measured. He crouched beside the bowls, brushing his hand over their rims. "It's time," he murmured. "The last process—fire. If I can gift you even one, then this work is not wasted."
He set them down again, neatly, as though each fragile piece carried weight beyond its form. Then he turned toward the small washroom.
Water splashed cool across his skin, washing away sleep, the faint ache of labor, the dust of clay. He dressed simply, tied his hair, and stepped into the garden he had planted himself.
The earth was cool beneath his bare feet, damp with dew. Leaves glittered as if strung with pearls. Bamboo swayed gently overhead, each stalk humming softly in the breeze.
Qiyao knelt among the bok choy, fingers brushing the tender green leaves. He plucked two stalks, careful not to bruise them, then reached for spring onions and a single knob of ginger. Their scent rose fresh and sharp, grounding him in the morning air.
In the kitchen, firewood crackled faintly in the stove. He rinsed the vegetables in a clay basin, water rippling like liquid glass. Rice simmered in a pot, grains swelling slowly into congee. He sliced bok choy into thin ribbons, dropped them into the pot, added ginger, and stirred. Steam rose fragrant, curling upward in white threads that reminded him of incense smoke, of memory lingering in the air.
He ladled the congee into a ceramic bowl, garnished it with chopped spring onions and, almost without thinking, laid a single lotus petal upon the surface. It floated delicately, a silent offering in itself.
Carrying the bowl, he sat at the wooden table. His back was straight, his gaze steady, watching the steam curl upward into the morning light.
It looked like prayer.
It smelled like devotion.
And in his stillness, Shen Qiyao knew: this place was no longer only a shelter. It was becoming a life.
The congee warmed him from within, simple and nourishing. Qiyao ate without haste, each spoonful deliberate. When the bowl was empty, he set his chopsticks across the rim, wiped the table clean, and rinsed the dish in silence.
The sun had risen high by then, its light spilling sharp and gold across the courtyard. He stepped out once more to the veranda where the bowls waited. Their clay bodies were pale, fragile, their pressed symbols barely visible beneath the dried surface.
Qiyao lifted one, weighing it in his palm. Still soft, still vulnerable. Without fire, they would crumble at the first touch of water. The manual had been clear: Clay untested by flame is not yet a vessel. It must be tempered to endure.
He gathered firewood, stacking it neatly into the pit he had dug behind the shrine. His motions were steady, practiced; each branch placed with intention. When the wood was arranged, he set the bowls nearby, lining them as though preparing soldiers for inspection.
One by one, he carried them into the firepit, spacing them carefully. Some leaned slightly, as if uncertain of their place, but he adjusted each until they stood firm.
With flint and tinder, he struck a spark. Flame leapt, caught, spread along the dry wood. Soon heat pressed against his skin, the crackle of burning branches filling the quiet.
The bowls began to change. Their damp surfaces darkened, moisture hissing into vapor. Smoke curled upward, mingling with the scent of charred wood. The pressed lilies and butterflies etched into clay seemed to flicker in the shifting light.
Qiyao crouched near, eyes fixed. His face was expressionless, yet his breath grew slower, deeper, as though aligning with the rhythm of fire itself.
Hours passed. He fed the flame steadily, neither too fierce nor too weak, remembering the manual's words: Too hot, and they will shatter. Too cool, and they will never harden.
Sweat slid down his spine, dampening his robe. The scars across his back shone faintly in the firelight, lines of history written on flesh. He did not move except to tend the fire, his patience unyielding.
At last, the flames began to sink, leaving bowls glowing faintly red within the ash. Qiyao waited until the heat eased, then with careful hands, lifted each one out.
Some had cracked, lines running jagged through their sides. Others had warped, rims bent and twisted. But a few… a few held. Whole, hardened, their clay ringing softly when tapped.