He set the survivors on the veranda, arranging them in a neat row. Sunlight touched them now, glinting faintly against their surfaces. They were no longer fragile earth, but vessels—imperfect, yet enduring.
Qiyao stood a long moment, gazing at them. His hair was damp with sweat, his hands streaked with ash. Slowly, he exhaled, the sound barely audible.
So this is what it means, he thought. To begin again, to fail, to burn, and to endure. Perhaps this, too, is the language you will accept.
He bowed his head slightly, not to the firepit, not even to the bowls, but to the silent presence he felt hovering just beyond the edge of sound.
If you will not take my words, then take my work. This is all I have to offer.
The bowls had cooled by evening, their surfaces no longer fragile but firm, each carrying the quiet weight of endurance. Qiyao touched their rims one by one, listening to the faint ring when his nail tapped against the hardened clay. Imperfect, yes, but vessels nonetheless.
He straightened, a rare softness flickering across his gaze. "If they are to hold anything," he murmured, "then let it be something worthy."
That night, instead of the usual plain rice or pickled vegetables, he prepared with more care. From the garden he gathered fresh greens, from his stores a small measure of mushrooms he had dried days earlier, and from the river a handful of tiny silver fish, cleaned and simmered in broth until their fragrance filled the shrine. He worked slowly, each cut precise, each stir deliberate, as though this meal was not for himself alone.
When the dishes were finished, he portioned them into the newly fired bowls: congee brightened with ginger, greens glistening with sesame oil, mushrooms tender and fragrant, fish laid neatly in pairs. He arranged them along the veranda, incense burning beside them, the smoke winding upward in thin, silver lines.
He sat back afterward with his own simpler share, eating in silence. The food warmed him, though he hardly tasted it; his eyes lingered on the row of bowls glowing softly in the lamplight, as though waiting for something.
Later, he cleaned away his own plate, doused the fire, and lay down on the mat. Moonlight slid across the floor, brushing his shoulder. He slept without expectation.
Morning came with the rustle of bamboo leaves and the touch of sun across his face. Rising, he stretched, then walked barefoot to the veranda where the bowls awaited. Ash from the incense had scattered lightly over the wood. He crouched, lifting one bowl to rinse it.
He paused.
The bowl that had held fish was nearly empty—only a few stray bones remained. Another, which had held mushrooms, was bare save for a thin stain at the bottom. Yet others, such as the plain rice, were untouched.
Qiyao narrowed his eyes faintly, though his expression remained calm. "...Rats," he murmured. Or perhaps a stray cat slipping through the grove. He set the bowl down again, brushing away a line of ash.
He did not linger on it. The world was full of small hungers, and food never went unseen for long.
He carried the bowls to the basin and began to wash them, the morning light pooling like water across his back.
At first, Qiyao thought little of it. A rat nosing through the night, a stray cat brushing past the veranda—such things were ordinary. After all, this shrine was half-swallowed by the grove, and wild creatures made it their domain long before he arrived.
The next evening, he prepared again—plainer this time, a bowl of congee, a few greens. When morning came, the greens had vanished, leaving only the sheen of oil clinging to the clay. The rice, however, lay untouched, each grain where he had left it.
Qiyao studied the bowl in silence, then rinsed it clean. "A rabbit, perhaps," he thought. "Or the wind carried them off." Yet even as he said it, the words rang hollow.
On the third night, he set out offerings once more. This time he arranged three bowls: rice, pickled radish, and a slice of river fish. Dawn revealed the rice untouched, the radish gone, and the fish taken clean to the bone. Again, the pattern.
His hand lingered on the rim of the empty bowl. No signs of gnawing. No crumbs scattered. Not even the faint trace of a paw or claw in the ash-dusted wood. Only absence, sharp and deliberate.
Still, he told himself nothing.
The fourth day, he set plain rice in all the bowls. Morning found every dish exactly as he had left it.
That was when his breath slowed, the stillness deepening around him. If it were rats, if it were foxes… they would not pass untouched food. Not for four bowls lined in a row.
He set the bowls aside, washed them clean, and said nothing aloud. Yet his heart beat slower, heavier, as though he stood at the edge of a truth too large to name.
On the fifth night, he prepared deliberately. Into one bowl, rice—white and unadorned. Into another, greens and ginger, tender and fragrant. Into the third, a morsel of fish, laid with care. And into the last, only water, clear and still.
He placed them in a neat row upon the veranda, incense burning at their side. Then he sat back in the shadows of the shrine, waiting.
The night passed in silence. Moonlight drifted. Bamboo swayed. Nothing stirred.
But at dawn, when he rose, the rice remained untouched, the water still full. The greens were gone. The fish vanished clean.
Qiyao's hand hovered over the bowls, unmoving. Slowly, he closed his eyes, a breath steadying his chest.
So it is not chance. It is not hunger. It is choice.
For the first time, he felt the silence speak without words.
The morning light stretched long across the veranda. Qiyao sat for a while before the bowls, unmoving, as if waiting for them to reveal more. The pattern was too clear, too exact. Yet his mind resisted. He had lived too long in silence to trust the first whisper of an answer.
So he chose to test it.
That evening, he worked with care. Four bowls again, but this time each offering held purpose:
In the first, plain rice.In the second, rice with ginger, fragrant and warming.In the third, a strip of dried fish.In the fourth, rice shaped carefully into a small ball, pressed with the imprint of a lily petal.
He placed them side by side on the veranda, their rims glinting in lamplight. Incense burned between them, thin smoke curling into the grove.
Qiyao did not sleep. He sat at the threshold, arms folded loosely over his knees, eyes half-closed but watchful. Hours slipped by. The night deepened, the moon climbed, and still the bowls stood quiet. No paw, no whisker, no shadow stirred.
Near dawn, weariness pressed against his temples. He let his gaze drift away for only a breath. When it returned, he stilled.
The first bowl—plain rice—remained untouched.
The second—ginger rice—was bare, not a grain left.
The third—fish—empty, clean.
The fourth—the lily-pressed rice ball—gone entirely, only the faint imprint of the petal left on the clay's surface.
Qiyao lowered his gaze, the faintest tremor in his fingers as he touched the edge of the chosen bowl.
It was not accident. Not hunger. Not wind or beast.
It was reply.
He bowed his head, the corners of his hair falling across his face, shadowing his eyes.
So you have chosen. So you are listening.
A slow breath left him, steady as an oath. Then this will be our language.
The morning spread gently across the shrine, gold light dripping through the bamboo. Shen Qiyao carried his small wicker basket into the field, the ground still damp beneath his bare feet. The air smelled of earth and dew, and when he crouched to tug at weeds, the coolness of the soil sank straight into his palms.
He worked quietly, fingers brushing against bok choy leaves, straightening the stems, pulling at the stubborn grasses that threatened to choke them. It was the kind of work that never shouted, never demanded. But it gave the hands something to do while the mind wandered.
And wander his mind did.
That first night I came here, I barely knew if I could stay. The roof leaked, the dust was thicker than air, and even breathing felt heavy. And now… now I'm planting, waiting for shoots like I've been here forever. Strange.
He tugged a sprig of ginger loose from the earth, shook off the clinging dirt, and set it in the basket.