Morning arrived like steam that remembered there is more than one day to finish a pot.
The mark beneath Yinlei's collarbone kept its small, steady warmth.
Stay, it said—the way a table says eat before anyone decides to argue.
Lin Yunyao set two cups on the root of the Seventh Pine and unwrapped a square of cloth. Three flat breads waited, browned where the pan had disagreed and then made peace. She left space for a third cup and did not fill it. Some habits are doors; you keep them open to remember you live in a house.
"Today," she said, "we teach carry-over."
"Write it on the back," Yinlei answered. "Read it first."
Elder Shi Tianjing climbed the last steps with weather in his knees and patience in his breath. He greeted the cups before the people, as always. In his hands: a stack of cedar slips with one side polished and the other side left rough; a small round stamp carved with a hollow circle—open, unfinished; a stub of charcoal tied to a cord; and a shallow tray lined with gauze, no deeper than a palm.
"Tools for refusing panic," Shi said, laying them on the root. He touched the slips. "Front is for today—recipes we can pull. Back is for the part that goes to tomorrow on purpose." He set the stamp beside them. "Circle that doesn't close: proof that we chose a next day, not a failure." He held up the charcoal on its string. "To write at knee height without bending into pain." He lifted the tray. "Carry-over bed. Things sleep here, not in pride."
"And if someone calls carry-over laziness?" Yunyao asked.
"Seat their hurry," Shi replied. "Feed it. Then bind its mouth to knees."
They went to the kitchens first. Warmth breathed from clay pots. The cook shoved a basket of scallions at Yinlei and pointed at a board that had known sharper knives and forgiven them. He sliced into thin coins, salted once, and stopped before the pot decided it was a river. Yunyao bruised mint and set it at the window so the room would remember to be kind. Li Wei—already there with a loaf wrapped in clean cloth—caught a junior's hurry with two fingers on his wrist.
"Breath first," Li Wei said. "Hand after. Today we teach the room not to eat its tomorrow to flatter its noon."
On the inner path, Elder Wu waited with a ledger and nothing else—confidence, perhaps, that chairs now arrived when summoned. Registrar Han carried a sleeve of blank slips and the round stamp wrapped in cloth. Prefect Pan wore rope where seals used to bully his belt; his fingers remembered slack like a song. Ren tucked brushes into her sleeve; Shu squared his towel with the ceremony of a small general.
"Post the sentence where mouths go," Wu said.
They crossed the yard. The jaw above the door could be read by wrists alone: Later. Enough. Share. Return. Lend. Borrow. Keep. Enough-for-now. Bind. Clear. Set. Beneath the lintel, the shelf kept its parliament: blue ash on Ready; wick on Rest; broom head on Repair; tin tag flipped to go where jobs had surrendered drama. The sill-board held the wind-screen; the sun-card dozed at first light. On the rope, freshened slips breathed—the letters of yesterday's clear now dry by the courtesy of set. The knee stripe along the jamb stayed a patient supervisor.
Ren wrote the day's line on a fresh board and set it between Set and the door's timber:
Carry-over: turn the slip; write on the back; stamp the open circle; lay it to sleep; read it first tomorrow.
Below, the recipe for wrists and days:
If dusk arrives and work still breathes, stop at knee height.
Turn the slip. On the back, write why it waits and what it needs.
Stamp the open circle. Lay it in the tray.
At first light, read the tray before you read yourself.
Auntie Niu arrived first, steam on her wrists, spoon held like an opinion with manners. She read the board twice, then laughed the way kitchens laugh when reminded they can choose something gentler than heroics.
"I have a stock that wants all night to become itself," she said. "I'll write it on the back before dusk tells me manners."
"Good," Yunyao said. "Carry-over is broth's true calendar."
The hawker Zhu came with his placard reduced to what a hungry mouth needs to know. Tao the miller shouldered a sack that had stopped pretending to be a mountain; Du the ferryman came with a coil of rope that respected its nouns. The capital scribe Lan wore a coat that had learned to be a towel if asked. Accountant Bian brought his book of wrists. Captain Ma's caravan lined the edge of the square—wagons like commas that had retired from auditions. The Bright Pavilions monk with practical sandals arrived with a sheaf of petitions turned recipes, all dry from the sill, his face practicing joy without theater.
Elder Shi set the shallow tray on the shelf under the lintel, between Rest and Repair, and tied a short loop of waxed cord above it, knee height, for the charcoal. Shu hung the charcoal so it could write without being lost.
"Today's work first," Elder Wu said. "Then we decide what sleeps."
They began with the rope. Han clipped up the three slips that would be needed by noon—Share, Return, Lend—and left Keep, Bind, Clear, Set on the sill to wait their shifts. He placed a blank cedar slip beside the rope and wrote at the top: Carry-over tray—front faces tomorrow.
The ward thread over the eastern terrace plucked—polite, then less. Buckets formed. Zhu shouted the count on three. The seam accepted chalk as compliment. The bell on the sill was handed a towel and continued its dignified retirement. Carry-over did not interrupt water; it kept wrists from worshipping the sprint.
A problem arrived early, which is when problems are useful: two carts at the arch, one of them Captain Ma's, both insisting their lanes belonged to them at the same minute. The sun-card on the sill had not yet reached high; the bell not yet earned. Voices began to try for volume.
"Bind," Li Wei said, soft, and pointed to the loop where lanes had learned to obey bells. "South-with second; east-with third." He looked at the sky, then at the rope, then at the tray. "And if clouds choose stubborn, we carry the east cart over."
Ma glanced at the tray. "Write it on the back," he said, surprising himself with how good the sentence tasted. Han turned a blank slip, wrote on the rough: East cart waits one bell for rope at ferry; gift while waiting: sweep the arch; need: one boy for wheel. He stamped the open circle—hollow, unashamed—and laid the slip into the tray. The east carter, reading his own tomorrow in public, relaxed. He handed his broom to the boy who wanted to shout three and taught him to sweep without writing poetry about it.
Constable Jin arrived with a regulation he had washed and set yesterday; now it needed one more clause to behave. "Permit petitions that become recipes," he said. "But my office wants a copy, and my fear wants knees."
"Turn the slip," Ren said. Jin did. On the back he wrote: Copy tomorrow; today we cook. He stamped the open circle, laid the slip into the tray, and discovered that his lungs had more room.
The Office of Coordination's reformed spokesman Fu brought a draft lane map with three places unruly. "We can fix two before dusk," he said, "but the third wants a plank and a person who knows the river. If we push, we break someone."
"Enough-for-now," Elder Shi said. He turned the map, wrote at knee height: Third lane: tomorrow with Du; need: plank, two pegs, one song not shouted. He stamped the open circle and slid the map under the wind-screen to set the ink. "Carry-over is the rope to tomorrow," he said. "Pull without tearing."
The monk from Bright Pavilions stepped to the tray with a petition's reverse. "We promised to tally blankets and visit those who folded without gongs," he said. "We can do it by dusk, but if the rain comes, our walking turns to flattery."
"Read the sky," Du said—the city's new language for patience. "Write the walk on the back."
The monk wrote: Blanket thanks—tomorrow; need: dry sandals and a list that knows houses not names. He stamped the open circle and smiled at the permission to be useful without pretending omnipotence.
Auntie Niu ladled stock, considered onions, and announced, "This pot will be tomorrow's best friend." She turned a slip and wrote with the charcoal: Stock: simmer till third bell; cool; set; carry-over to morning; need: a boy who doesn't taste every ladle. She stamped the open circle and slid the slip into the tray, then looked up at a boy already pretending innocence near the pot. "You," she said. He grinned and put his hands behind his back and learned to sniff without theft.
The ward thread plucked again, and again the bucket line did the thing it now knew: count, carry, knees. The rope's slips traveled as if the day's arms were loops instead of speeches.
Spectacle arrived in the noble costume of urgency: a clerk from the Treasury with a ledger that felt heavier than it looked and a mouth trained to say "deadline" as if it were a god's private name.
"All market tallies due by high light," the clerk announced, tapping the knee stripe at eye height with an offended finger. "No carry-over authorized."
"Close for spectacle," Li Wei said. The oiled linen lowered a finger-width. The chalk line brightened. The clerk sat and discovered the seat insisted on knees.
"Name," Yunyao prompted.
"Pi," he said, "Revenue Office." He set the ledger on his knees and looked surprised to find it lighter there.
"What do you carry?"
"A deadline," he said. "A real one."
"Read it twice," Elder Shi said.
He did. The first reading sounded like terror borrowed from someone else's hour. The second sounded like a number that didn't know soup. Accountant Bian stood at his shoulder and pointed to the rope. "We can tally two by high light," Bian said, "without stealing wrists from buckets. The third is honest tomorrow. We'll write it on the back and stamp it in the open."
Pi blinked at the tray, at the hollow circle, at a city that spoke tomorrow without apology. "And if my office punishes?" he asked.
"Carry your office over," Auntie Niu said. She turned a blank slip, wrote: Third tally—tomorrow; need: one quiet table; two bowls; no speeches. She stamped the circle and handed the slip to Pi. "Take this. If they complain, give them soup."
Pi took the slip like a man receiving a map away from a cliff. "Soup," he said, tasting the word as if it might be a currency his office had forgotten how to count. "All right."
By first bell, the tray held three open circles sleeping in cedar: the east cart; the third lane; the third tally; and the blanket thanks. None of them felt like failure. They felt like bread set to rise under a cloth.
At the sill, the sun-card moved to high. Shu turned it when shadow told him to, not when pride told him to hurry. The wind-screen breathed. The slips on the rope stayed readable. The cloth on the screen dried toward usefulness. The rope for the ferry drank oil and returned to Du with manners.
Two boys, Jiao and Min, arrived with a confession that wanted to be dramatic but chose grammar instead. "We couldn't fix the alley by second bell," Jiao said. "Stones kept remembering old arguments."
"Turn a slip," Shu said, and handed them charcoal. Jiao wrote on the back: Alley stones—tomorrow; need: three handfuls of grit; one old man who remembers where it cracks. He stamped the open circle and placed the slip in the tray. "Read it first tomorrow," he said to Min, and Min nodded as if he had inherited a sensible tool.
The Office of Claims clerk Yao returned with a small box of stamps dried correctly by set, not baked by ego. He had brought a form with too much preamble and not enough knees. "Clear?" he offered, already holding the cloth.
"Clear," Ren said. They rinsed the preamble away. There remained one line at knee height: No stamp without shadow on the rope. Yao looked at the tray and added on the back: Audit—tomorrow; need: stool; mint; no collars. Stamp; tray; sleep. His shoulders dropped half an inch and wisdom increased by exactly that measure.
A merchant from Painted Gate, fox not yet fully domesticated, approached with contracts in hand and impatience rehearsed. "If we carry over everything," he said, "we never finish."
"If we refuse carry-over," Elder Wu replied, "we never arrive." He handed the merchant a cedar slip and pointed to the back. "Write why it waits and what it needs. If you cannot name those, you're trying to worship. We wash worship. We set work."
The merchant wrote, slow, suspicious, then oddly grateful: Bridge deal—tomorrow; need: river at lower temper; two witnesses with knees. He stamped the open circle and, as if relieved of a fever, went to watch the ferry for the first time like a student instead of a narrator.
The ward thread settled into a polite hum. The bucket line moved like reading aloud in a house that likes its voice.
"Bring it to the arch," Shi said softly to Yinlei, when the pile in the tray had become its own small weather. "Let the Boundary smell cedar backs, open circles, and paper that chooses a next day."
They chose four things: the cedar tray with its sleeping slips, the round stamp with its open circle, the charcoal on its cord, and one front-and-back pair—a lane map with today on the front and tomorrow with Du on the back, the circle stamped hollow like a moon that refuses to pretend to be full. Yunyao tucked Auntie Niu's stock slip into her sleeve because recipes are the city's best arguments.
At the arch, the stone had written nothing. It had learned to rest from telling people what they already knew. Yinlei set his left palm on the cool and his right over the mark. He did not ask with his mouth.
What do you want?
Down, the ear answered, pleased in the way houses are when days hand bread to the next day instead of eating the basket. Then—with the soft click of a slip turning over:
Carry-over.
They knocked. Two light beats and a pause. The door opened because it wanted to be a door. The obelisk stood in the middle of enough. The crystal held Mu Qingxue standing the way water holds reflections it intends to keep. Her eyes went to the tray, to the open circle, to the charcoal's cord shining with fingerprints, to the map that confessed it had a second half.
"Ask first," she said.
What do you want? Yinlei asked the ear again.
Carry-over, the ear repeated, delighted to be a decision and not a defeat.
They descended. The under-room waited like a kitchen between rushes. The low chair kept its angle. The trough held water to purpose. The drum did not need to be touched to keep time.
Yunyao set the tray on the stone and fanned the slips just enough that the open circles showed like small moons over cedar. She pressed one corner of the map flat and turned it from front to back and back again, so the room could see how a day can be honest from both sides. Han tied the charcoal's cord to the pine square drilled at knee height so that no one would have to bend into apology to write a tomorrow.
"Read," she said.
Yinlei read the board's sentence and the recipe for wrists and days. He read the backs: need: one boy for wheel; need: plank, two pegs, one song not shouted; need: quiet table, two bowls, no speeches; need: dry sandals and a list that knows houses, not names. He spoke read it first tomorrow and the drum between his ribs promised a morning that would not waste itself remembering speeches.
Pressure arrived—polite, efficient, trained in emergencies that never sleep. It tried to rename carry-over as delay, tray as backlog, open circle as failure. It offered a red stamp, closed and complete, that would turn every tomorrow into an indictment.
Yunyao lifted the round stamp—lift while you turn—and pressed the open circle into one new slip at knee height so gently the wood sighed. She set the red stamp aside without insulting it; she just refused it. "We thank first," she told the room. "We stop at knee height. We write why and what. We sleep it. We read it before ego." She placed two fingers on the cedar and did nothing more. The pressure, unable to feed on panic that refused applause, went away to invent a crisis in a house that had not learned to cook.
"Name gently," Qingxue said.
They named the stock that wanted night to become itself; lanes that asked for a plank and a song; a tally that preferred bowls to brilliance; blankets that wanted dry sandals more than trumpets; a decree that would sit to be copied; stones that would accept grit and an old man; a bridge that would wait for a river to behave; a market that would rather sleep a task than starve a tomorrow; a city that trusted its tray; a house that remained a kitchen.
The trough answered with a ring no bell could steal.
"Tomorrow," Qingxue said, lowering her hand, "teach wake—how to lift what slept without scolding it. Begin with the tray."
"We will," Yinlei said.
They climbed. Shadow became hallway. Elder Shi leaned where doors like to consult grandfathers. He smelled cedar backs, mint, and the reasonable promise of soup that knows patience.
"How many?" he asked, which is how he asks who.
"A tray," Yunyao said. "A circle that doesn't lie about being full. A charcoal at knee height that writes without injury. Four slips that admit they love the next day. A map that works on both sides. A market that can say 'enough for now' without pretending to be tired. A house that stayed a kitchen."
"Enough," Shi replied, which is how he says good.
They crossed the yard. The sun-card sat at late. Shu turned it when shadow told him to. The sill let wind say yes. The rope held today's verbs and none of them demanded too much. The tray held tomorrow's and none of them apologized. The bucket line moved like a sentence with a period that didn't need to be an exclamation. The ferry returned on time because the rope had remembered oil. The boys swept the arch, then sat with Auntie Niu's stock and learned what patience tastes like when it's edible.
At the pine, evening chose a color that forgave everything it touched. They tore the breads and salted them and ate without correcting the recipe. The mint made their fingers smell like useful promises. The mark beneath Yinlei's collarbone warmed like a lamp in a room that had decided to survive by being ordinary well.
Li Wei brought the slate and asked—by the handle, not the blade—"May I write?"
"Write," Yunyao said.
He wrote in the careful script of someone becoming honest with letters:
Carry-over: turn the slip; write on the back.
Write why it waits and what it needs.
Stamp the open circle.
Lay it to sleep.
At first light, read the tray before you read yourself.
Stop at knee height.
Thank first.
Later, so service can be true.
Enough, so rooms stay honest.
Share, so mercy has edges.
Return, so gifts walk home.
Lend, so tools travel with care.
Borrow, so mouths knock in the right key.
Keep, so holding doesn't become hoarding.
Enough-for-now, so tomorrow survives.
Bind, so ideas are pulled, not posed.
Clear, so plans wash back into recipes.
Set, so clean things dry in sun, not pride.
Open for service; close for spectacle.
Convert threats to requests.
Bridge with slack; don't tighten.
Keep names.
Serve first.
Walk slower. The house will still be here.
Yinlei added one small line beneath, for tomorrow:
Wake the tray first.
Night cooled the root of the pine. Crickets practiced until they believed themselves. The Seventh Seal did not crack. It learned to turn slips over and let them sleep, and filed the knowledge where plain things go when they intend to outlast applause.
Carry-over.