The river wore the last light like a thin scarf. The willow leaned over the water and let its leaves touch the surface. Ripples moved out in rings, then faded, then started again, as if the tree were breathing.
Lin Xun stood in the cool shade with the old pot warm under his palm. Shy Lin stayed just behind him, quiet and ready. Sparrow Chen watched the current and the shape it made when it found the roots, eyes bright but calm.
Across the water a figure stood on a flat rock. He did not shift his weight. He did not clear his throat. He waited, and the air around him held a faint scent of pine and clean iron, like winter that has learned to be kind.
When he spoke, his voice was even. "You brought only your pot."
"That was the advice," Lin Xun said.
The figure nodded once. "Advice given to those who hear it."
Shy Lin looked at the willow leaves and at the space between them. Sparrow Chen took one slow breath and let it go without sound. The river listened to everyone at once.
The figure stepped off his rock and onto a shallow path of stones barely under the surface. He did not splash. He crossed to their bank as if the water had set stones there for him and then hidden them again. Up close his coat was plain and dark, worn at the sleeve where a hand would rest. His gloves were thin and clean. No ring, no mark, only the faint smell of pine and iron that clung to him like a promise.
"I am here to ask for a cup," he said.
Lin Xun lifted the pot a finger's width, then set it down on the old cloth he had tucked in his sleeve. "Here."
"Not here," the man said, and he looked at the water. "There."
A flat stone sat half a step into the river where the willow's shade met open sky. It was dry on top. The water passed it with care, splitting and joining without anger.
Shy Lin glanced at Lin Xun. He nodded. They stepped onto the worn bank and found a footing that did not slide. Sparrow Chen stood a little to the side, eyes on the stream and the far bank and all the spaces in between.
Lin Xun set the cloth on the flat stone and placed the pot on it. The stone held a memory of sun. It gave that warmth through the cloth into the clay.
"What leaf," Lin Xun asked.
"None that fights the river," the man said. "Show me you know how to ask the water to join your hand."
Lin Xun opened his sleeve and took out a small twist of paper no larger than a thumb. Inside lay two threads of Quiet Reed from the hollow, pale as river grass that grows out of sight of the sun. He did not lift them with fingers. He tipped them into the pot and let the clay greet them.
He scooped water with the plain wooden ladle that had sat in the shadow of the roots. He let the lip touch the river without making a sound. He tilted the bowl so the air escaped like a shy thought and lifted it slow. A drop formed on the rim and held there. It did not fall. He fed the water into the pot in a thin line along the inner wall, then into the center, then into stillness. Calm Pour. He set the lid and lifted it once… again… again. Three small lifts, each paired with a breath, nothing extra.
Steam rose and drifted under the willow, then met the small wind that ran along the river and kept its shape. The scent that came was not bright. It was quiet and clean, like water on stone, like straw warmed by sun, like old wood that has learned patience.
The man did not reach for his cup. He watched the steam the way someone watches a path appear where there had been none, not surprised, only ready to step.
"You brought a word to the garden this morning," he said. "I want to see if your word learned how to cross water."
Lin Xun poured. The stream from the pot met the cup as if the cup had set itself to the right place before asking to be filled. The sound was not a sound. It was the change a small thing makes in a larger thing when the two agree.
The man took the cup but did not drink. He held it between his hands and let the steam write a line across his face. He closed his eyes and then opened them and took a slow sip. His shoulders eased the width of a finger. He took a second sip, then set the cup on the stone and looked at the river.
"The cup does not tell the water what to be," he said. "It lets the water remember a kind day."
He reached into his coat and took out a small square of folded cloth. Inside lay a thin petal of metal the size of a nail. It was pale, with a faint grain like winter ice when it first forms by the 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. Do not sell it. Do not show it. If you wave it in the air, it will become a toy and then a lie."
Lin Xun looked at the petal and let his hand learn its weight before his mind made a judgment. It was cool as it touched his palm, then warm. "Thank you," he said.
"I am not the only one asking for cups," the man said. He shifted his eyes to the far bank. "There are three men at the bend that cannot be seen from where you stand. They have the smell of guild coin and old oil. They have the look of people who confuse quiet with weakness."
Sparrow Chen smiled without showing teeth. "I thought the river had an extra line in its hum."
Shy Lin did not turn. Her hands folded on the edge of her sleeve.
The man did not lower his voice. He did not raise it either. "They will walk away if you do not answer their rattle. They came for a loud cup. You will not give it."
Lin Xun felt the small scale from the hollow warm against his sleeve. He set it on the lid of the pot and watched the steam thicken by a breath. He poured a second cup and set it near the edge of the stone where the current pulled at the scent and carried it on. The wind dropped for a moment, as if the river had asked it to be still. Far downstream a voice lifted, then stopped at once.
"They are gone," Sparrow Chen said, half to himself, as if he were telling the river and not the people on the bank.
The man finished his cup and set it down. He wiped a fingertip along the rim and looked at the tiny crown of moisture that did not form. He gave a small nod that was not praise, only an answer to a question he had asked himself and had not shared.
"You have a gift," he said to Lin Xun. "Not the kind that calls crowds. The kind that lasts long after crowds forget why they were loud."
He looked at Shy Lin. "You hold the room still without touching it. Keep that. Someone will ask you to turn it into a trick. Say no."
He looked at Sparrow Chen. "You can hear the pull in a place. Learn when to step back and when to lend your breath. You helped by not helping."
Sparrow Chen dipped his head, pleased. Shy Lin lowered her eyes and let a small smile live in them for a breath before it hid again.
The man stepped to the edge where the willow roots held the bank. He crouched and dipped two fingers into the water. He raised them and let a single drop fall onto the stone. It made a circle that went out and returned. When it reached his boot it slipped under and did not return again.
"The patron on the river barge is tired of games," he said. "He wanted to see if you would try to make me like a cup by dressing it in loud clothes. You did not. He will invite you to pour when the moon is small and the willow shadows grow long. He will not be the danger. The danger will wear a soft face and smell like sandalwood and money that has forgotten what work is."
"The guild," Sparrow Chen said.
The man did not answer. He stood and put the folded cloth back into his coat. He tapped his glove once against his thumb, then let his hand rest again.
"I knew a pot like yours," he said to Lin Xun. "It poured winter water at the north ferry when the river froze and the boats waited for a path. The man who held it spoke only when the cup asked him to speak. People told me they forgot the weight of their packs while they drank. The world grew heavy again when the cup was empty, but their backs remembered how to carry without making a fuss."
"My grandfather poured at a ferry," Lin Xun said, and the words came out quiet.
The man gave a very slight nod, as if he had expected that answer and had not planned what to say next. He looked at the willow and then at the line where the sky met the water.
"You will be asked to choose soon," he said. "One choice will be bright and fast and noisy. The other will be quiet and slow and will not win races. The bright one will be a trap. The slow one will carry people farther than they thought they could walk."
He stepped onto the shallow path of hidden stones. The water did not splash. He crossed to his rock and stood as he had stood when they first saw him, as if the river had put him there as a mark.
Shy Lin bowed. Sparrow Chen touched two fingers to his brow. Lin Xun inclined his head. The man did not wave. He did not vanish. He stayed where he was until the light changed and the willow's shade moved off the stone. When they looked back, he was gone. No ripple, no sound. Only the faint smell of pine that the wind took into the reeds and hid.
They walked the bank until the path met the lane. The evening crowd moved in slow threads. A girl carried a basket of greens. A mason pushed a cart with two wheels that did not agree with each other. The world had the kind of noise that belongs to work. It did not press.
Back at the lodging house Attendant Lotus had left a small lamp by the door and a slip of clean paper under the wick. The paper held three brush strokes, simple and clear.
The river asks for one more cup.
Shy Lin turned the lamp up and the flame held steady. Sparrow Chen fetched three plain bowls from the shelf and set them down out of habit, even though the night might ask for other hands.
Lin Xun placed the old pot on the cloth from the pavilion. He set the small metal petal on the lid and felt the clay meet it like two friends who have already decided to share a table. He did not reach for rare leaves. He took Bright Lotus for a clear start and a thread of Quiet Reed for the river. He warmed the pot and poured. The steam rose and did not drift far. It kept a small circle around the table and set it at ease.
They drank quietly and let the taste sit in their chests. After the third sip the room felt like itself again, the way a room feels when a long day has put away its tools and nobody has come to ask for more.
A soft knock touched the door and did not repeat. Shy Lin went to open it. A boy stood there with a basket of pears and a note tied to the handle with string. He bowed and gave the basket over with both hands.
"For the tea that made my father less angry with his own legs," he said, and ran off before anyone could thank him.
Sparrow Chen cut one pear into five slices and set them on a plate. He left a space for the person who had not yet arrived. When they had finished their cups, that person came.
A woman in a market robe stood at the threshold with her hair pinned back and a line of dust along one sleeve. Her hands were clean. Her eyes were careful.
"I do not know if I am in the right place," she said. "Someone told me to find the room that smells like river and straw, and to ask the man there if he can pour a cup that lets a name feel gentle again. My brother says our father's name too loud. It breaks the room. We would like to say it and not make the walls feel small."
Shy Lin moved a chair. Sparrow Chen poured water into a clean bowl for washing hands. Lin Xun set the petal on the lid and let it warm. He thought of the willow and the man on the rock and the quiet in the hollow when the eye opened and then closed.
He brewed with Bright Lotus and a breath of roasted oolong for warmth, not to hide anything, only to give the sound of the name a place to lie down when it came. He poured into a plain cup and set it between the woman and the empty space she had brought with her. She did not drink at once. She set her palms on either side of the cup and listened to what rose.
"Thank you," she said, and when she said the name, the room did not pull in. The walls did not crowd. The lamp did not flicker. The name sat in the air and did not ask for anything it did not need.
She left a coin and a folded list of prices for clay bowls from her shop. She bowed and went.
Night deepened. The lamp made a small circle on the table and let the rest of the room be dark. Outside, the river carried the day away in thin layers. Someone sang far off. A dog answered and then was quiet.
Sparrow Chen stretched and looked at the window. "The patron will send for you," he said. "I think he has already sent for you without telling his own hands yet."
Shy Lin leaned her cheek on her fist and smiled. "We will walk the long way when we go," she said. "Let the path see us and decide to be kind."
Lin Xun cleaned the cups and dried the pot. He wrapped the metal petal in the cloth it came in and set it where his hand would find it without looking. He put the small scale from Quiet Water beside it. He sat and let his breath find its length.
The world felt wide and near at once. The willow had become a shape in his chest, not heavy, only patient. The river was a line of sound just under his hearing, the way a room holds a note long after a string stops moving.
The knock that came next was not soft. It was not rude. It had the careful rhythm of someone who has been taught how to ask a room to open. Shy Lin answered. A Pavilion attendant stood there with a lantern and a folded slip sealed with a brush of wax shaped like a small petal.
"From the barge on the river," the attendant said. "The patron asks for a late cup."
Lin Xun broke the seal. The slip held a single line. Bring what the willow heard.
He looked at Shy Lin and Sparrow Chen. They both nodded as if the line had been written on their own palms. Lin Xun lifted the pot. The attendant stepped back so the night could come in with them.
The lane had fallen quiet. The water made its slow sound. The lantern on the attendant's pole sent a gentle glow over the path. They walked, and the light did not hurry them. It showed the stones, and the stones showed the way. The river waited at the end like a friend who does not need to clap to be seen.
The barge lay moored under two tall willows, lanterns hung from the eaves bright as small moons. People moved on the deck, slow and purposeful, as if the wood under their feet had asked them to be kind to its old joints. Music brushed the air like silk.
The attendant lifted the lantern a little higher. "He is ready," he said.
Lin Xun placed his hand on the lid of the pot and felt the clay answer. The willow in his chest lifted one branch. The river leaned closer. The night was not here yet, but it was close… and the barge felt like a stage that had waited a long time for the right song to begin.