Qinghe Village moved into full spring the way a tea leaf unfurls in hot water—gracefully, with no need to announce itself.
The air had changed again. It was neither sharp nor heavy, but carried the scent of young earth, fresh grass, and something almost impossible to describe—expectation, maybe.
Birds had returned in earnest, flitting from tree to tree, testing branches with practiced feet. The village women began hanging out floral cotton sheets instead of winter quilts, and the children now ran barefoot in the fields after school, shouting about secret bugs and digging up red clay with wooden sticks.
And Lin Yuan, as always, lived quietly at the center of it all.
---
This week, he had a new project.
Behind the eastern orchard—past the camellias and beneath the shade of two tall gingko trees—was a strip of neglected land that had been overgrown with ivy and wild grass for years. A corner most villagers had forgotten even existed. When Lin Yuan bought the property years ago under one of his discreet holding companies, it had been a "buffer zone," an untouched patch meant to deter land developers from creeping closer.
Now, it would be something else.
He stood there at dawn with a summoned landscape artisan and a permaculture planner. Both arrived silently the night before via electric van. No markings. No fanfare.
"I want a medicinal garden," Lin Yuan said. "Low-maintenance. Traditional herbs only. Native growth if possible."
The artisan—an older man with silver streaks in his ponytail—nodded thoughtfully.
"We'll start with schisandra, motherwort, and astragalus. Add some white peony and old wild ginger to the shaded side. And a tea tree, if the soil accepts it."
Lin Yuan walked the perimeter slowly. "Make it circular. Winding paths. Like something forgotten but loved."
The planner looked at him curiously. "May I ask... who is it for?"
Lin Yuan paused at a stump and ran his fingers over its surface. He didn't answer directly.
"Some people carry tension like knots in rope," he said. "Places like this can loosen it."
The planner gave a soft smile. "Then we'll make it gentle."
---
Over the next few days, the area was quietly transformed.
The vines were trimmed, but not removed entirely. Instead, they were braided into living trellises. Moss was encouraged to grow on stepping stones. Wooden labels were hand-carved and marked with ink in both modern characters and old script.
No machinery was used.
No noise was made.
The garden grew like a memory resurfacing.
---
One afternoon, as Lin Yuan sat under the gingko trees sipping chrysanthemum tea, Wei Qiang arrived carrying a thick book.
"Uncle Lin, I found this in the school library. It's about old Chinese herbs. Want to see?"
Lin Yuan accepted the book and flipped through its pages slowly. It smelled faintly of glue and dusty paper.
"Do you want to learn these too?" he asked.
"I thought I should," the boy said earnestly. "You said every garden needs someone who understands it."
Lin Yuan closed the book gently.
"You're growing well," he said. "Like spring bamboo."
Wei Qiang beamed, then asked, "Are you making this for someone?"
The question came suddenly. Innocently.
Lin Yuan looked toward the peach tree in the distance.
"Yes," he said quietly. "But also for no one. And for everyone."
---
A few days later, Aunt Zhao stopped him in the kitchen while chopping radish tops.
"You've been humming lately," she said, not looking up. "That only happens when you're thinking about a woman."
Lin Yuan raised an eyebrow. "You've been listening at the door again."
"No need," she replied, smirking. "The radishes told me."
He chuckled. "Then what did the tofu say?"
"That she'll visit again soon," Aunt Zhao said confidently. "And she'll bring ginger."
---
She was right, of course.
Three days later, Xu Qingyu arrived with a cloth bag over her shoulder and a bundle of fresh spring ginger in her hands.
"I came as requested," she said without explanation.
"I didn't send a message."
"You left the second teacup out."
Lin Yuan took the ginger wordlessly and placed it on the kitchen table. "Then let's make soup."
---
That night, over a meal of ginger and mushroom broth, bean curd skin stir-fried with bok choy, and steamed rice with goji berries, they talked of things unrelated to work or schedules.
She asked if he remembered how the stars looked from the mountain behind the village.
He asked if she still kept that tiny notebook she once carried with quotes written in the margins.
"I don't need it anymore," she said. "These days, I remember the lines I need."
"Give me one," he said.
She paused, then recited softly:
> "In a world that hurries, be the still branch birds choose."
He nodded.
"That's a good one."
---
The next morning, Lin Yuan took her to the medicinal garden.
She walked the circular path in silence, her fingers brushing over the labels and leaf edges, pausing now and then to inhale the scents.
At the center of the garden, beneath the gingko trees, he had placed a simple wooden bench.
She sat on it without being asked.
"This feels like something very old," she said. "Like it was here before the rest of the village."
"Maybe it was," he said. "In my mind."
She looked at him.
Then, unprompted, she leaned her head on his shoulder.
For a long while, neither moved.
Only the wind passed between the herbs, rustling them gently like a page turning.
---
They stayed like that until late afternoon, when the sun cast long shadows through the leaves and the air cooled.
Back at the courtyard, Aunt Zhao had prepared sesame glutinous rice balls.
"They're filled with red bean and sweet flag," she announced, placing the bowl before them. "It's a good day to eat something soft."
Xu Qingyu laughed. "That sounds like something from an old proverb."
"It is," Aunt Zhao replied. "I just forgot the rest."
---
That evening, as they walked beside the pond, she asked him a question she had never dared before.
"If you could bring anyone back—summon them, like your mysterious consultants—who would it be?"
Lin Yuan stared at the moon's reflection in the water.
"My grandfather," he said after a long pause. "Just to show him the land stayed safe."
"He'd be proud."
"He wouldn't say it," Lin Yuan smiled. "He'd just inspect the compost."
She laughed quietly. Then added, "And you? What do you inspect?"
"Silence," he said.
---
That night, before she returned to her room, she turned back at the corridor and said, "I'm thinking about staying longer next time."
He met her gaze. "How long?"
"I don't know. Maybe... indefinite leave."
He nodded once.
"Then I'll leave the second cup full."
---
After she left the next morning, Lin Yuan walked the orchard alone.
Spring was fully awake now. The camellias glowed, the plum petals lay like a pink carpet, and the peach tree whispered softly in the breeze.
He checked the garden, the greenhouse, the irrigation. Everything moved.
But so did he.
That night, in his study, he summoned a new consultant.
Not for farming.
Not for logistics.
But for interior design—traditional, serene, guest-friendly.
"I want a room redone," he said.
"For who?"
He didn't answer.
But the system recorded it.
And the redesign began.
---
[End of Chapter 9 ]