The streets of the old quarter were quieter than the city beyond. Autumn's first crispness lingered in the air, carrying with it the faint fragrance of fallen leaves and sandalwood smoke from small shrines.
Lin Qing Yun walked slowly toward 旧梦轩 (Studio of Old Dreams), a small paper box cradled in her hands. Inside were osmanthus pastries she had picked up along the way—the kind she remembered Master Shen favoring the last time she visited.
The studio door stood open, as though waiting for her. Inside, the familiar fragrance enveloped her—aged wood, old paper, ink, and a trace of tea leaves.
Shen Huai Zhen sat by the window, sunlight falling across his white hair. He glanced up, his smile deepening when he saw her.
"Ah, my little guest has brought tribute again." His voice was warm, teasing. "Bribery through food—does this mean you plan to skip your lesson today?"
Qing Yun lowered her head slightly, lips curving. "I wouldn't dare. This is just… thanks."
"Mn." He accepted the box, opening it with care, as though even the pastries were treasures worth preserving. "Then today, no blades, no glue. Sit."
Qing Yun blinked. "No restoration?"
"No restoration," he echoed firmly. "Pour tea for me instead. Slowly. Carefully. Let me see how your hands work when they are not pretending to fix something."
She obeyed, seating herself at the low table. The clay teapot was warm beneath her hands. She poured with care, watching the stream of amber liquid fill the cups.
Shen Huai Zhen's eyes narrowed approvingly. "Good. Tell me—do you know why tea must be poured slowly?"
Qing Yun shook her head.
"Because rushing spills it." He lifted his cup, inhaling the fragrance. "Life is the same. Some burdens feel heavier only because we try to carry them too quickly."
Qing Yun lowered her gaze, fingers tightening around her cup. The steam curled between them, faint and fragile.
---
For a time they drank in silence. Then Shen Huai Zhen spoke again, voice softer, heavier.
"Every person carries something," he said. "Loss. Guilt. Responsibility. We cannot put them down, but we can learn how to balance them."
He leaned forward slightly, gaze intent. "When you repair porcelain—press too hard, and the fragment shatters. Tremble too much, and the pieces won't fit. It requires steadiness. Not only in skill, but in heart."
Qing Yun's lips parted, but no words emerged. Her heart gave a small, painful twist.
The old master smiled faintly, as though he could see through her silence. "Child, you've been steady for too long. Even the strongest arms grow tired."
Her throat tightened. For once, she let the truth slip, her voice a whisper. "Sometimes… I feel like if I stop, everything will fall apart."
Shen Huai Zhen did not look surprised. He only nodded, his eyes deep with understanding. "That is the nature of love. It asks us to carry, even when it is heavy. But remember—" his voice gentled, "—you do not carry it alone anymore."
The words pressed against the walls of her chest, threatening to break through. Qing Yun lowered her head, hiding her eyes. She forced herself to sip tea instead of answering.
---
Later, Shen Huai Zhen rose and beckoned her toward the work table. A cracked porcelain bowl lay waiting. Its surface was faintly luminous in the light, the gold powder prepared in a small dish beside it.
"Hold it," he instructed.
She reached carefully, lifting the fragment.
"Not like that." His hand hovered over hers, guiding. "Don't grip it like it will run away. Hold it as if it trusts you."
The bowl felt cool, fragile. She adjusted her grip, loosening until it rested gently against her palms.
"Better," Shen Huai Zhen said softly. "Responsibilities are the same. They are not enemies. They are fragile things asking you to be kind—even to yourself."
Qing Yun's breath shivered. Her eyes stung, but she blinked the sensation away before it could spill.
---
By the time she prepared to leave, the sky had shifted to late afternoon. She packed her things quietly, but Shen Huai Zhen stopped her at the door.
"Child," he said, his tone carrying the weight of years, "come back whenever your heart feels too full. This place isn't only for broken antiques—it's for mending people too."
Her throat tightened again. She bowed low, voice low but steady. "Thank you, Master Shen."
He waved her off with a smile, already opening the pastry box. "Go on, go on. Before I eat everything and regret not saving you one."
Qing Yun laughed softly, the sound lighter than when she arrived.
---
When she returned to the mansion, twilight had begun to settle. The garden lanterns were lit, glowing softly against the dusk.
Ze Yan waited in the library, papers stacked neatly on the desk but clearly untouched. He looked up the moment she entered.
"Did you enjoy your lesson?" he asked, voice casual but eyes sharp.
Qing Yun nodded, setting down her bag. "Master Shen… speaks of burdens as if they are also blessings."
Ze Yan reached out, brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek. His hand lingered, his gaze unwavering. "Then let him remind you as many times as it takes, until you believe it."
Her lips curved faintly. She lowered her eyes, warmth spreading quietly through her chest.
The night deepened, the mansion bathed in stillness. For now, the burdens she carried seemed lighter, balanced by voices—one wise and old, one steady and new—that promised she was not alone.