Qiyao rose and crossed to the altar where the withered stems still rested in a shallow bowl of water. Their bells had turned translucent, their scent long faded. He touched them lightly, his fingers brushing petals that crumbled at once.
These were not enough.
The flowers he had bought at the market were already severed from their life when he held them. Their fragrance had been a shadow of what he remembered in the valley. Even the one stick that had succeeded—its smoke had been fragile, fleeting, gone too soon.
If incense was the memory of a flower carried by fire, then to make it true, he needed the flower's living essence. Not wilted stems. Not what others sold for ritual. But blossoms as they had been in the valley—alive, unbroken, still carrying their soul.
He returned to the veranda, standing at the edge. The bamboo swayed, casting dark silhouettes against the night sky. Beyond them, faint and distant, the outline of mountains rose.
His eyes lingered there.
The memory folded into him with the certainty of a path.
Hours passed before he lay down again. Even then, his eyes remained open long into the night, watching the ceiling beams above him. The faint scent of lilies still clung to the air, lingering longer than it should have. He breathed it in slowly, holding it as though it might vanish if exhaled too quickly.
It was only one success, but it was enough to show him the way.
And when sleep finally came, it carried him not into dreams, but into silence filled with fragrance—an echo of the valley, an echo of waiting.
Morning came soft and pale, the air washed by night dew. Qiyao rose from his mat with the memory of the single incense still lingering—the way the smoke had held, unbroken, the way its fragrance had carried like a thread of the valley.
He stepped outside, washed his hands in the basin, and looked toward the village. The thought pressed steadily in his chest: he needed more lilies.
By the time he reached the village road, the sun had climbed higher. Life had already spilled into the streets. Women drew water from the well, balancing heavy buckets across their shoulders. Men repaired fishing nets stretched across poles. Children ran with wooden hoops, laughter bouncing off stone walls.
But what caught Qiyao's eyes were the flowers.
He had noticed them before, but only in passing. Now, after the night of true smoke, he saw them everywhere.
A clay vase by a doorway, filled with stems cut fresh, water beading along their green stalks. A balcony above the cobbled street, where lilies were tied into neat bundles, hanging like bells from the railing. A shopkeeper arranging bolts of cloth had tucked a stem behind his counter, the white blooms standing in a chipped cup.
Even the apothecary, with shelves of jars and bitter herbs, had a bowl at the window filled with floating lilies, their pale faces drifting in circles.
Everywhere Qiyao turned, the flowers were there hung, placed, or laid gently. In glass, in vases, in jars of water, in simple wooden bowls. Their fragrance threaded through the market, faint but unbroken, weaving into the scents of grilled chestnuts, wet stone, and steamed buns.
He tightened his grip on the pouch of coins at his side. The shrine had none left. If incense was to succeed again, he needed these flowers, fresh and true.
The flower stall stood at its usual corner, shaded by a canvas stretched overhead. When Qiyao reached it, he slowed. The baskets that once overflowed with pale bells now lay nearly empty. Only a handful of wilted stems remained, their heads bowed, their fragrance gone.
The woman behind the stall straightened, brushing hair from her face. When her eyes met his, she gave a small sigh, as though expecting him.
"Stranger," she said gently. "What might you be looking."
Qiyao inclined his head. "The lilies."
She spread her hands over the bare baskets. "Gone. All gone. Sold before the sun was high."
His gaze lingered on the wilted stems, the spaces where fresh bundles had once been. "So quickly?"
Her smile was weary but not unkind. "Always. This season, lilies vanish faster than rice. Every house takes them, every shop, every altar. Have You saw them yourself, did you not? They hang in every window, rest in every bowl."
Qiyao nodded once. He had.
The woman leaned her elbows on the stall, lowering her voice as if sharing a secret already well known. "They are not only flowers. They are devotion. The elders say lilies of the valley belong to our protector. Long ago, he watched over Zhuyin. no one agrees—but still, we honor him. Each year, when lilies bloom, we offer them. For gratitude. For safety. For another year of peace."
Her gaze softened as she looked past him, toward the street where children ran, their laughter bright. "Without lilies, a house feels bare. Exposed."
The market around them bustled: the call of a fishmonger, the clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the smell of sweet cakes frying in oil. But Qiyao stood still, his attention fixed on her words.
"Then there will be more tomorrow?" he asked quietly.
The woman's smile faltered. She shook her head. "No. Not for some time."
Qiyao's brow drew faintly together.
"The man who gathers them," she explained, "the only one who knows the patches well—he has fallen ill. Fever took him last week. Without him, there are no new flowers. What you saw today were his last bundles, stored and sold. By dawn, they were gone."
Her voice carried no drama, only the matter-of-fact tone of a village used to the cycles of supply and want. Yet Qiyao felt the weight of her words settle heavily.
"Is there no other who can gather them?"
"Not easily," she said. "The lilies grow only on Mount Wen, past the streams, high along the shaded slopes. They are stubborn flowers, thriving where the soil is damp and steep. Few dare the climb, and fewer still can return with enough to sell. Only he knows the paths well. That is why we depend on him."
She looked at Qiyao then, studying him with curiosity. "Why do you seek them so earnestly? You've no altar here, no family shrine. You are not of Zhuyin" are you?
Qiyao's gaze lowered briefly to the empty baskets. "They are… what I need."
The woman tilted her head, as though weighing whether to press further. In the end, she only sighed. "Then you must wait. Wait until he recovers."
"Where does he live?" Qiyao asked.
The question seemed to startle her. "His home?"
He inclined his head.
She hesitated, then pointed toward the north road. "Near the mill, at the village edge. His wife tends him. If you mean to ask, go there. But…" Her voice softened. "Do not expect much. Even if you find the place where lilies grow, it will not be simple. Mount Wen does not yield easily."
Qiyao met her eyes, steady as always. "I will not take it lightly."
The woman's mouth curved faintly, neither smile nor frown. She glanced at the empty baskets once more before adding, "Strange, isn't it? Outsiders usually leave at the first whisper of our 'curse.' Yet you chase lilies as if they hold your breath."
Qiyao did not answer.
She waved her hand dismissively, returning to gather the wilted stems. "Go on, then. Speak with his family. Perhaps they will guide you. But if you truly mean to climb that mountain—pray first. The protector may watch us, but he does not guide strangers' feet."