The air in Qinghe Village had begun to shift.
Late summer in this part of the province brought with it a rare stillness—when the heat softened, the cicadas grew quieter, and the fields exhaled after weeks of quiet labor. Lin Yuan, as always, rose before sunrise, letting the cool air settle across his shoulders as he stood at the edge of the southern plot, sipping warm water.
Today, he wasn't dressed in his usual loose tunic.
He wore a plain grey shirt tucked into clean black trousers, his hair neatly tied at the nape, and a faint scent of cedar lingered from the herbal soap he used only for formal occasions.
Da Huang sniffed him suspiciously.
"You're not going with me today," Lin Yuan told the dog as he opened the gate. "She doesn't like muddy pawprints on old paper."
The dog let out a low, mournful groan before collapsing dramatically into the cool shadow of the bamboo shed.
Lin Yuan chuckled and stepped into his SUV.
He wasn't heading to the city, but rather the small lakeside retreat twenty kilometers south of Qinghe—technically still within the rural development jurisdiction, but rarely visited. It was a protected site, leased quietly to the county government, used mostly for internal meetings, training seminars, and the occasional literary retreat.
Today, Xu Qingyu had scheduled a half-day visit.
Officially, she was inspecting the feasibility of a future ecological education center on the site. Unofficially, she had asked Lin Yuan to meet her there—without titles, without files, without the mask of roles.
He had agreed without hesitation.
---
The road wound through narrow valleys lined with golden-leafed gingko trees, then opened to reveal the pristine lake. The surface reflected the pale blue sky like a sheet of glass.
Lin Yuan arrived at the gated entrance just as the groundskeeper—a retired teacher named Old Wu—was sweeping the flagstone path with a handmade broom.
"Ah, it's the quiet boy from Qinghe!" Old Wu called out, grinning toothlessly.
Lin Yuan bowed lightly. "Still sweeping with bamboo instead of plastic?"
"Plastic rattles too much," Old Wu replied. "Scares the crickets."
Lin Yuan left the SUV under the wutong tree and walked the rest of the way to the lakeside pavilion with his hands tucked behind his back. The path was lined with old stone lanterns covered in moss. The only sounds were the breeze in the trees and the occasional plop of fish rising to the water's surface.
And then—her voice.
"I thought you'd arrive later."
He turned to see Xu Qingyu, dressed in an ivory qipao blouse with dark slacks, standing at the edge of the wooden dock. Her heels were off, and she stood barefoot, her toes grazing the water.
"You underestimate my respect for appointments," Lin Yuan replied, stepping closer.
"Or perhaps," she said without turning, "you're just curious what I look like outside the city."
He said nothing. He didn't need to. The scene itself was its own answer.
She finally turned, her expression soft but composed. "Shall we walk?"
---
They strolled slowly along the lake, past reeds and dragonflies, and reached the old reading deck beneath the willow trees. A bamboo tea table had been set up, complete with a small burner and two cushions.
Xu Qingyu knelt with effortless grace and motioned for him to sit. "I brought the Wuyi again," she said. "Thought it might suit the mood."
Lin Yuan prepared the water in silence, letting the steam rise like clouds between them.
When the tea was ready, he poured two cups.
They drank the first cup without speaking.
Only on the second did she say, "You could be doing so much more, you know."
He looked at her.
"I mean," she added, "I know you prefer the background. The roots instead of the branches. But someone with your resources… you could reshape the entire rural province."
Lin Yuan sipped his tea. "Why break the forest just to plant a tree that grows faster?"
"You wouldn't be breaking anything. You'd be building."
"Building draws attention," he said calmly. "And attention brings disruption. I don't want to build a kingdom. I just want to protect a garden."
She studied him for a long time.
Finally, she said, "You remind me of my grandfather."
"Is that a compliment?"
"A warning," she replied, with a faint smile. "He was also brilliant. Quiet. Respected. But he died alone, refusing every award, every invitation to speak, every chance to influence."
Lin Yuan looked at her, thoughtful. "Did he regret it?"
"No," she said. "But I did."
---
They talked for hours—not about policies or funding, but about quiet things.
She told him about her childhood in a small town with one bookstore and one movie theater. About the time she failed her first civil exam because she insisted on writing her own essay format. About the moths that kept finding their way into her apartment, no matter how tightly she shut the windows.
He told her about the time Da Huang chased a pig through the village square and caused a wedding to delay. About his grandfather's notebook filled with poetry no one else had read. About the time he tried to bake bread using rice flour and exploded the oven.
By the time the tea had cooled, they were both leaning back, gazing at the willow leaves trembling in the wind.
"Have you ever considered… something more?" she asked quietly.
Lin Yuan tilted his head.
"More than solitude. More than hidden letters and encrypted channels."
He didn't answer.
Instead, he reached into his satchel and handed her a folded piece of paper.
She opened it.
Inside: a hand-drawn sketch of the peach tree at his estate, with two seats under it, one with a teacup, one with a book.
Her fingers lingered on the page.
She didn't speak for a long time.
Then she folded it neatly, placed it in her satchel, and said, "You really are a quiet force."
Lin Yuan simply said, "So are you."
---
That evening, as he drove back to Qinghe, the road seemed softer under his tires. The golden gingko leaves spun down gently as if the wind was in on a secret.
At home, Da Huang was waiting under the camphor tree, tail thumping lazily.
Lin Yuan knelt and scratched behind his ears.
"She may come to visit soon," he whispered.
The dog gave a low grunt and returned to his nap.
---
Two days later, a plain white sedan pulled up outside Lin Yuan's estate. No driver. No escort. Just Xu Qingyu, carrying a cloth-wrapped bundle and wearing a wide-brimmed hat.
She walked in without knocking.
Da Huang looked up, blinked, and then resumed snoring.
Lin Yuan met her at the doorway, mildly surprised. "You came."
"I brought mulberry wine," she said, holding up the bundle. "Don't expect it to be good. It's from a friend's uncle's backyard batch."
"I'll drink it anyway," he said. "Out of respect for bold entry."
She smiled and stepped in.
They sat under the peach tree, sharing slices of taro cake and pouring the wine into handmade clay cups. It was sweet, slightly sour, and stronger than expected.
By the third cup, she had taken off her hat and leaned back against the tree, eyes half-closed.
"Do you know how rare this is?" she murmured.
"What?"
"This feeling. No phones. No formality. No schedule."
Lin Yuan tilted his cup. "Then we don't ruin it with words."
And they didn't.
They just sat, letting the silence fold around them like an old quilt.
---
That night, she stayed at the guest room in the side courtyard.
Nothing happened—except rest.
The kind of rest you forget exists when the world keeps shouting.
When she left the next morning, she didn't promise to return.
But she didn't need to.
Under the peach tree, two cups remained on the table.
And the bamboo leaves rustled softly in the wind, as if nodding in approval.
---
Elsewhere, a county newspaper prepared a report on rising eco-innovation in Qinghe.
Lin Yuan redirected the reporter to a different village.
A provincial developer submitted a plan to buy land near the estate.
Lin Yuan quietly bought the surrounding 500 mu first, through a shell trust.
The world was always moving.
But beneath the peach tree, time had slowed.
And in that slowness, something fragile and beautiful had begun to grow.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Just steady.
Like roots.
---
[End of Chapter 4 ]