Back mountain.
A wide mountain path ran straight to the summit, plum trees lining both sides.
Flat stones were set into the earth as tiered steps, making the climb steady.
Qi Zhimu used no technological tools. He cared for the grove with his own hands.
Fertilizing. Pruning. Driving off pests.
In winter, deep snow often covered these wild hills; most birds had long migrated south. Everything lay in silence.
Only the small sounds of work gave the quiet mountain a hint of life.
Time slipped by. As Qi Zhimu neared the summit, the weather changed abruptly.
The late-autumn sunlight was swallowed by thick gray clouds. Thunder rolled.
In this usually dry season, storms were rare.
Qi Zhimu looked up at the sky—but did not stop working.
Soon, a fine mist of rain arrived.
The light curtain of water softened the dry air, then turned into a steady drizzle, soaking his clothes.
Raindrops struck the stone steps and burst into tiny splashes, tapping out a crisp rhythm.
Autumn wind pushed the rain through the plum branches, helping withered leaves return to dust—quietly gathering strength for the rebirth that would follow the bitter cold.
"Mr. Qi—!"
A girl's voice carried upward, approaching fast.
Qi Zhimu turned.
Clarisse was climbing up, holding an oil-paper umbrella, her steps urgent.
A single umbrella couldn't block rain from every angle. Her skirt hem was already damp, yet she didn't notice.
She ran straight to him and stretched her arm, tilting the umbrella over his head.
"Why did you come out without putting on your jacket?" he asked.
"Huff… y-you'll get soaked." Clarisse's cheeks were pink, her breathing quick.
Warmth rose in Qi Zhimu's chest; he smiled helplessly.
"Silly girl. Treating a cold is far harder than drying wet clothes. Don't bother with the umbrella—go back."
"No!"
Clarisse shook her head, stubborn.
At last—finally—she could do something for him, however small.
"Mr. Qi, you only know how to care about others. Even doctors have to care about themselves, at least…"
She hesitated, then said it clearly, as if summoning courage:
"Save some of the gentleness you give the world… for yourself."
Qi Zhimu stilled. Then his eyes curved softly, and he nodded.
"Then I'll trouble you, Clarisse."
"I'm already eighteen. I'm not little."
In her homeworld—and in this world—that was old enough to marry.
"Heh…"
Qi Zhimu laughed, his voice bright despite the rain.
Youth was good.
When he thought back to his own eighteenth year—
His memory snagged, blank.
He couldn't recall anything worth remembering.
Maybe there hadn't been.
Or maybe, after a hundred and more years, an old man simply couldn't retrieve it.
Under the same umbrella, they walked past plum after plum, winding through the grove at the summit.
The rain remained dense, wrapping them in a watery haze.
Clarisse quietly tilted the umbrella toward Qi Zhimu. Her left shoulder grew wet, and she didn't even notice.
"Wait. This tree needs pruning."
Qi Zhimu stopped and neatly clipped away excess branches.
Clarisse hurriedly raised the umbrella higher. As they moved, his sleeve brushed her bangs, carrying a faint, clean scent.
Mr. Qi always smelled like herbs—and also like some flower she couldn't name.
It was comforting.
She suddenly wished time would slow down.
The rain sharpened. One umbrella was no longer enough. They retreated under an old plum tree.
But the sparse branches couldn't form a true shelter.
Rain slipped through gaps and scattered into fine splashes on the umbrella.
"Cold?" Qi Zhimu asked, taking the umbrella from her.
"I'm not cold."
Yet Clarisse still edged closer, unconsciously.
His scent drifted with the wind, and her heartbeat quietly quickened. She turned her head, letting her light-purple hair hide the heat at her ears.
They were probably red.
"In another two months, when winter comes—when the plums bloom—let me help you pick the blossoms," she blurted out.
Afraid it sounded too obvious, she rushed to add:
"And… I'll pick some for myself too. I want to make sachets with plum blossoms—for you, Mother, and me…"
"You're thoughtful," Qi Zhimu said.
He did not refuse.
Clarisse remembered a romantic line:
If you share an umbrella with the one you love, the droplets on its edge become seeds of memory, blooming in the years ahead.
But then—the reading…
As she drifted, she heard something she hadn't expected.
"Actually… I don't like winter."
"Huh? Why?"
"When I was small, the only blurred memories winter left me were famine, war, rotting corpses… and the terror of wandering at death's edge."
"Then… you do all this because you love plum blossoms that much?"
"How much I love them, I don't know." Qi Zhimu's voice was quiet. "But I remember Teacher loved plums. She loved plum-blossom wine even more. And pastries scented with plum."
…
So it was for that teacher again.
Clarisse's understanding of that woman's weight in his heart deepened yet again.
The air fell silent.
The rain eased. They walked on until they reached the last few trees.
Qi Zhimu lifted a drooping branch to let her pass.
"Watch your step," he reminded gently—unaware of where her gaze had lingered.
Holding an umbrella. Lifting branches so someone could pass.
His movements were so natural—like something he had done countless times.
Clarisse suddenly wanted to ask: had anyone ever held an umbrella for him?
The thought tightened her throat.
The answer didn't need guessing.
Probably not.
Mr. Qi looked young, but she remembered that even twenty years before she first heard rumors of him, he had already been living here.
At the most conservative estimate, he was over forty.
Who could he have practiced this for so many years—until it became instinct?
Most likely… that mysterious teacher whose name he rarely spoke.
And she—who was she, really?
From scattered hints, Clarisse began to suspect the teacher was female.
-------
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