The sun of early spring filtered gently through the gauze curtains of the car. Outside, Liangcheng's streets had not yet awakened to their noisiest rhythm; there was still a softness in the air, a lingering coolness.
Qing Yun sat in the backseat, her hands folded loosely over her lap. She carried a small package of fragrant tea leaves and a box of delicate sesame cakes wrapped in paper. Ze Yan, who had insisted on driving her personally that morning before going to the office, glanced at her from time to time. She sat calm, her profile turned toward the window, eyes tracing the riverside road.
"Don't forget to eat something while you're there," he said quietly, almost as if afraid to disturb her thoughts.
Qing Yun inclined her head, not turning. "I will."
The chauffeur pulled up near the narrow riverside alley. The small signboard of 旧梦轩 (Jiù Mèng Xuān, Studio of Old Dreams) swung faintly in the breeze.
Ze Yan leaned over, kissed her temple briefly—something he had grown bolder in doing lately—and whispered, "I'll pick you up this evening. Don't tire yourself."
She didn't reply, but when she stepped out of the car, she looked back once, the box of sesame cakes balanced in her hands. That single glance was enough to light Ze Yan's chest like a lamp.
---
The Studio's Warmth
Inside, the air was scented with sandalwood and old paper.
The studio was not grand, but every corner breathed history: scrolls laid out to dry, porcelain shards waiting to be pieced together, brushes and tools neatly arranged. Sunlight slanted across the worktable where Master Shen Huai Zhen bent over an ancient porcelain vase, his white hair glowing like silver threads.
He looked up when the door creaked. A smile tugged his lips.
"Ah, my little guest has come again."
Qing Yun lowered her head politely. "I brought some tea and cakes for you, Master Shen."
"Always too courteous," he chuckled. "Put them down, then come here—your timing is good. This vase is nearly ready for its final line of repair. If you want to watch, come closer."
She set the gifts on a side table and walked softly across the wooden floor. Her gaze followed his hands: steady, unhurried, tracing a fine line of gold along the porcelain's crack.
For a long time she said nothing. Her heart calmed simply by watching.
---
Quiet Chores, Gentle Company
She never asked for lessons outright. Instead, she took it upon herself to sweep the floor, dust the bookshelves, wipe the glass cabinets that displayed restored scrolls. When Master Shen paused for tea, she poured it for him, her movements careful, deliberate.
"Don't busy yourself so much," he said once, watching her fold cleaning cloths.
"It's what I can offer," Qing Yun replied, her tone soft but firm.
He only smiled, eyes crinkling. "Then I shall accept it. But know this—you already offer something more precious by simply being here."
Qing Yun froze, surprised. But when she looked at him, he had already returned to his vase, as though he hadn't spoken.
---
The Philosophy of Restoration
During a break, Master Shen gestured for her to sit beside him. He picked up a brittle sheet of calligraphy, its edges darkened with age.
"Do you see this crack here?" he asked.
Qing Yun nodded.
"Restoration is not about making it new again. That is impossible. It is about honoring its age, its journey. We do not erase scars—we strengthen them, so they endure longer."
He tapped the paper lightly. "Every scar tells a story. The work of our hands is to preserve the story, not silence it."
Qing Yun stared at the parchment, her chest tightening. Scars… preserve them…
Her own life, too, was covered in cracks. For years she had tried to bury them beneath smiles. But here, in this quiet studio, the philosophy was different: not erasure, not pretending, but gentle mending.
---
Apprentices' Warmth
Occasionally, one or two apprentices came by—men in their thirties who spoke respectfully to Master Shen. They greeted Qing Yun kindly, never questioning why she was there.
She often peppered them with questions:
"How do you clean ink stains without damaging the fibers?"
"Why use this kind of glue instead of another?"
They always answered with patience, sometimes even demonstrating on scraps of practice material.
"You're a fast learner," one of them remarked. "Your hands are steady. That's rare."
Qing Yun lowered her gaze, embarrassed, but inside she felt a small spark of pride—something she had not felt in years.
---
Evening Gathering
As dusk approached, footsteps echoed outside. The door slid open, and Gu Ze Yan appeared, carrying two large bags of food.
"Forgive me for intruding," he said smoothly, bowing slightly to Master Shen. "But I thought you might all be hungry."
Master Shen chuckled. "You always bring too much, young man."
"It's no trouble," Ze Yan said, setting out the dishes on a low table: hot noodles, braised vegetables, dumplings. The aroma filled the studio.
The apprentices gathered, the room suddenly alive with chatter. Master Shen told old stories about his early years restoring scrolls in the palace museum; one apprentice cracked a dry joke about mixing up glue jars. Laughter rippled through the space.
Qing Yun sat quietly, but her lips curved faintly at the corners. Warmth seeped into her bones, not loud, not overwhelming, but steady, like the glow of lanterns at dusk.
Ze Yan, seated across from her, watched her carefully. When he saw that tiny curve of her lips, his chest eased. He didn't interrupt—just let her sit in that warmth, the family-like chatter surrounding her.
---
Bittersweet Parting
When the evening deepened, Qing Yun reluctantly rose. She bowed to Master Shen, thanking him.
"Come again," the old man said kindly. "This place is brighter when you're here."
She hesitated, her chest tight. Then she nodded softly.
As they stepped outside, Qing Yun glanced back at the warmly lit studio. A pang of sadness struck—another week until she could return. Yet she also carried a strange happiness, as though a hollow corner of her heart had been filled.
---
Ze Yan's Quiet Joy
On the drive back to the mansion, Qing Yun leaned against the window, her face serene but tinged with longing.
Ze Yan studied her profile in silence.
Finally, he leaned forward, brushed a kiss gently onto her hair.
She didn't flinch.
He smiled to himself, eyes soft. At last, he thought. She's found something worth staying for.