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Dawn reached into the bamboo with the patience of an old hand, laying a pale wash along each leaf as if testing the green with a fingertip. The mist in Bloomshade lingered without hurry, as if the garden had asked it to stay. It softened every edge, laid a thin kindness over the paths, and made them seem older than they were.
Li Xun stood before the inner gate, the old clay pot steady in both hands. The coin in his sleeve was warm against his wrist, its three notches cupping a pressed petal like a promise that did not need to speak. His breath was even, his mind cleared by the kind of labour that leaves no space for clutter.
Attendant Lotus waited in the first spill of light that touched the stones. Her robe held the colour of clear tea poured into a white cup, her hands unmarked, her gaze calm in the way of someone who had learned to look without taking.
"Names stay at the door," she said, her voice barely lifting into the air. "Inside, the garden listens. Let it hear something worth keeping."
Shy Lin, bright-eyed and still, bowed at the threshold. "I will wait by the first hall," she said. "I will not play. The garden has its own song."
When Li Xun stepped through the screen of bamboo, the air altered. It was cooler, yet somehow more alive, like water that had learned to carry light within itself.
The first path curved into a low courtyard where a single tree rose from a round bed of moss. Its pale leaves were etched with such fine lines that they seemed drawn by an unshaking brush. Beneath its branches a table waited... a small brazier, a kettle, the same plain clay pot, and two empty cups. Between the cups lay a narrow slip of bamboo with a line of ink, fine as a hair.
Attendant Lotus set her fingertips on the strip. "Pour a cup for a leaf that does not speak. If it knows your word, it will answer. If not, it will remain as it was."
She met his gaze. "The leaf will not change its colour, for colour is for the eye alone. It will change its breath. If the cup holds your word, the leaf will breathe with it."
"What must I bring," Li Xun asked.
"Not cleverness," she replied. "Not force. Bring the same word you carried yesterday, without fear."
He lit the small flame, warmed the pot and the cups, and drew water from a jar whose taste was like clear sky. He set Bright Lotus leaves for a clean beginning, a thin thread of River Thread for movement, and a breath of his roasted oolong for warmth. The pour was thin and steady, touching the pot's inner wall before spiralling to the centre, then resting. Three lifts of the lid, three unhurried breaths.
The cup he poured seemed to carry a stillness of its own. He placed it on the moss bed beneath the branches, small against the space that received it.
At first there was nothing. Then the leaf above moved... not with wind, but with the faint rise and fall of breath.
Attendant Lotus watched without speaking. "Good," she said. "The tree heard you. Carry the same word forward."
From the far edge of the moss bed came a soft step. Sparrow Chen stood there, kettle against his chest, hair refusing to stay flat, smile quick as sunlight.
"I tried to make the leaf laugh," he said with mock defeat. "It prefers quiet people to loud ones."
"The tree likes truth in the cup," she said. "Truth is not loud or soft. It is only itself."
They walked on. The path ended at a low wall with a narrow slot, beyond which lay a shallow stone court. At its centre, a clear well waited, surrounded by small clapperless bells, each set apart like patient stars.
"Water of the still mouth," Attendant Lotus said. "Draw without sound. If a drop falls loud enough to ring a bell, the water will keep your worry and return it. It will not lift your word."
The ladle was plain wood, smooth from years. Li Xun's breath moved down into his hands. He lowered the ladle until the water met it, letting no bubble escape, then lifted in an unbroken arc. The drop at the lip swayed, then climbed back into the bowl without falling. Three quiet pours into the kettle, and not a single bell stirred.
Sparrow Chen exhaled a held breath. "I will practise that all day. If I tried now, I would splash the sun."
Attendant Lotus only said, "Practise with an empty ladle. Let your hand learn the shape before the water learns you."
The path bent again through listening bamboo. Steam sprites peered from the soil. Leaf wisps drifted slow in the air, green a shade brighter than before.
They reached a pavilion open on three sides to pale light. At its centre sat a table draped in a plain cloth, a single cup in its middle, and beside it a bowl holding something that was not leaf or powder. It caught the light and held it.
"Breath of the gate," Attendant Lotus said. "It carries the memory of a room and the memory of a hand. Brew with simple water. Invite the room. If it answers, you may carry it when you leave."
Li Xun worked without haste... Bamboo Mist leaf, a thread of Bright Lotus, the grain on the warm lid releasing the scent of stone after rain, old wood, and patient straw mats. The steam rose, spread, folded like a letter closing around a message. The scent was not of leaf alone, but of everything the room held.
Attendant Lotus smiled with her eyes. "Carry that with you. Let your house speak when you pour there."
A passing shadow brought the faint scent of pine after snow. Li Xun knew it without turning... the gloved man. He passed and was gone.
The seal pressed into the cloth's corner was cool beneath his fingers when she gave it to him. "Set this under your pot for those who do not yet trust you."
The day carried them back to the lodging house, to a window over a pond where fish turned as one. Evening fell, and the garden's scent deepened.
A woman came with a veil drawn. Her voice held the weight of someone who had spoken her need many times without finding a listener.
"My son has forgotten how to come home," she said. "Pour a cup that can turn a hinge in his mind."
Li Xun's hands moved with the same word the tree had heard... harmony, held and given. The cup sat between her and the window, where the pond's dark reflection pressed against the glass.
When she drank, her breath eased. She spoke of the gate, the mat by the door, the small crack in the third tile. She left without touching the coin she promised to leave outside.
Sparrow Chen said, "You poured for the space between her and home."
Li Xun only nodded.
Night folded in, the pond becoming only a pond. Somewhere in the garden, a bell rang once… then again… then closer.
Attendant Lotus appeared at the door without sound. "The garden heard your cup. At first light, bring only your pot. The Quiet Water waits. There is a beast there that wakes when the world is still."
When she left, the quiet felt like a door before it opens.
Li Xun touched the coin's three notches, the petal cool beneath his fingertip, and lay down. His breath settled into the rhythm the garden had asked him to carry. Sleep came as the smallest ring of a bell passed through the leaves, as if somewhere in the Quiet Water a beast had just opened one eye.
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