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The river wore the last light like a scarf laid so thin it might drift away at any moment.
Willow leaves leaned low and brushed the surface, setting out circles that slipped outward, faded, then began again, as if the tree were breathing through the water.
Lin Xun stood in the cool shadow, palm resting on the warm curve of the old pot.
Shy Lin lingered just behind, her presence quiet, steady, and without weight.
Sparrow Chen's gaze was on the current, following the shape it made where it caught the roots... his eyes bright, but calm, as if measuring something without a scale.
Across the water, a figure stood alone on a flat rock.
He did not shift his stance.
He did not clear his throat.
The air around him held the faint scent of pine and clean iron... winter softened until it could be called kind.
When he spoke, the words came even.
"You brought only your pot."
"That was the advice," Lin Xun said.
The man inclined his head.
"Advice given to those who hear it."
Shy Lin let her eyes rest on the willow leaves, then the narrow spaces between.
Sparrow Chen drew a single slow breath and let it go without a sound.
The river seemed to be listening to all of them at once.
The man stepped down from his rock, onto stones that lay just under the surface.
The water did not rise to meet his boots.
He crossed as if the river had set the stones for him and hidden them again once they were used.
His coat was plain, dark, and worn at the sleeve where a resting hand had brushed for years.
His gloves were thin, clean... no ring, no crest.
The scent of pine and iron clung to him like a kept promise.
"I am here to ask for a cup," he said.
Lin Xun lifted the pot a finger's width, then set it on the old cloth folded in his sleeve.
"Here."
"Not here," the man said, looking toward the water.
"There."
Half a step into the river, where willow shade met open sky, a flat stone sat above the current.
Its top was dry.
The water divided around it without force and rejoined without sound.
Shy Lin glanced at Lin Xun.
He nodded.
They moved toward the bank, careful with their footing.
Sparrow Chen stood off to one side, his eyes on the stream, the far bank, and the spaces between.
Lin Xun set the cloth on the flat stone, placed the pot on it.
The stone still held a little warmth from the day's sun, and that warmth passed through cloth into clay.
"What leaf?" Lin Xun asked.
"None that fights the river," the man said.
"Show me you can ask the water to join your hand."
Lin Xun untwisted a small paper bundle from his sleeve.
Inside lay two threads of Quiet Reed from the hollow, pale as river grass grown without the sun.
He tipped them into the pot and let the clay greet them.
With the plain wooden ladle, he dipped at the shadow of the roots, letting the rim touch the water without making a sound.
Air escaped the ladle in a slow sigh before he lifted it.
A single drop clung to the rim and did not fall.
He poured in a thin line along the inner wall, then into the center, then into stillness.
Calm Pour.
Three small lifts of the lid, each matched to a breath.
Steam rose, slid under the willow, and met the small wind that followed the river's line.
The scent was not bright... it was water on stone, straw warmed by sun, old wood patient in its age.
The man did not reach for his cup.
He watched the steam as one watches a path take shape.
"You brought a word to the garden this morning," he said.
"I want to see if your word can cross water."
Lin Xun poured.
The stream from pot to cup met without sound, as if the cup had chosen its place before asking to be filled.
The man held the cup between his hands.
He closed his eyes, then sipped.
A fraction of tension left his shoulders.
A second sip, then he set the cup down and looked toward the river.
"The cup does not tell the water what to be," he said.
"It lets the water remember a kind day."
From his coat he brought out a folded cloth, and inside, a thin petal of pale metal, the faint grain like winter ice first forming by a shore.
"For your lid," he said.
"When you pour in a place that worries, set it there. The worry will not end, but it will sit down. Don't sell it. Don't show it. Don't let it become a toy."
Lin Xun let his hand learn the petal's weight before his mind judged it.
Cool, then warm.
"Thank you."
The man's gaze shifted toward the unseen bend downstream.
"There are three men there. Guild coin and old oil. They confuse quiet for weakness."
Sparrow Chen smiled faintly.
"I thought the river's hum had an extra line."
The man's voice stayed level.
"They came for a loud cup. You won't give it."
Lin Xun set the small scale from the hollow on the lid.
The steam thickened.
A second cup was poured, set where the current could carry the scent.
The wind paused.
Far downstream, a voice rose, then stopped.
"They are gone," Sparrow Chen said.
The man finished his cup, traced the rim with one fingertip, and nodded to himself.
"You have a gift," he told Lin Xun.
"Not for calling crowds, but for lasting after they've gone."
To Shy Lin: "You keep a room still without touching it. Don't let anyone turn that into a trick."
To Sparrow Chen: "You can hear the pull in a place. Learn when to lend your breath."
He stepped to the willow roots, touched the river, let a drop fall to the stone.
The circle went out, came back, slipped under his boot and did not return.
"The patron on the barge is tired of games," he said.
"He will invite you when the moon is small. He is not the danger. The danger will wear a soft face and smell of sandalwood and idle money."
Sparrow Chen's mouth tightened.
"The guild."
The man did not answer.
He stepped back across the hidden stones, reached his rock, and stood as before, a mark the river had set.
When they looked again, he was gone.
They walked until the path met the lane.
Evening threads of work-noise wove through the air.
A girl carried greens.
A mason pushed a cart with wheels that argued with each other.
At the lodging, Attendant Lotus had left a lamp and a slip under the wick.
Three brush strokes:
The river asks for one more cup.
Inside, Shy Lin raised the lamp.
Sparrow Chen brought three bowls.
Lin Xun placed the metal petal on the lid, took Bright Lotus and a thread of Quiet Reed, warmed the pot.
Steam held a small circle close around the table.
They drank.
The room settled into itself.
A soft knock came.
A boy stood with a basket of pears.
"For the tea that made my father less angry with his legs," he said, and left.
Later, a woman in a market robe stood at the threshold.
"Someone told me to find the room that smells of river and straw, to ask for a cup that lets a name feel gentle again."
Lin Xun brewed Bright Lotus with a breath of roasted oolong, poured it plain.
She touched the cup, said the name, and the walls stayed wide.
She left a coin and a list of bowl prices.
Night deepened.
Outside, the river carried the day away.
Far off, someone sang.
A dog answered, then was quiet.
A knock with careful rhythm.
Shy Lin opened to a Pavilion attendant, lantern in hand, slip sealed with a wax petal.
"From the barge," he said.
"The patron asks for a late cup."
Lin Xun broke the seal.
Bring what the willow heard.
Shy Lin and Sparrow Chen nodded.
The attendant stepped back to let the night come in with them.
The lane was quiet.
The lantern showed each stone, and the stones showed the way.
The river waited at the end, like a friend who did not need to speak to be known.
The barge lay under two tall willows, its lanterns bright as small moons.
Steps on the deck moved slow, respectful of old wood.
Music brushed the air.
"He is ready," the attendant said.
Lin Xun rested his hand on the lid.
The willow in his chest lifted one branch.
The river leaned closer.
The night had not yet arrived, but it was near... and the barge felt like a stage waiting for the first note.
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