Zhong Hua pulled an old photo out of his canvas bag, taken last year in Wuyuan: "That guesthouse used a plow as its nameplate, yours is even more special." He drew a square on the back of the key with a marker, "You can have it engraved here." As he spoke, the wind rustled through the grapevines, the leaves whispering like his father's response.

Amid the hum of the sander, Ah Yu heard Zhong Hua suddenly say, "Your dad used to come to my shop to repair his pens." Her hand trembled, and the sandpaper chipped the edge of the key. "He had your name engraved on the pen barrel," Zhong Hua said, turning down the speed. "Every time he changed the nib, he would tell me to get a fine one, saying that his daughter needed it for writing small characters."

Ah Yu remembered the Parker fountain pen on her father's desk, the character "Yu" engraved on the cap gleaming from being rubbed. She had assumed it was a gift from his workplace until last week when she found the purchase invoice deep in his drawer, dated the day she was admitted to university. That day, she was away on military training, and her father had visited three stationery stores before finally finding this pen. On the back of the invoice was written: "May my daughter's pen blossom with talent."

It was drizzling the day the key was finished. Zhong Hua wiped away the last bit of copper dust with a soft cloth, and the shrimp-shaped key was ground into a thin sheet, its edges curved into crescent shapes. "Engrave the room number on the front," he said, raising the engraving knife, the blade gleaming coldly under the light, "and the back..."

Ah Yu suddenly pressed his hand. She remembered her father's cloudy eyes before his death, the photos of the old house in Zhong Hua's camera, and the afternoons she always spent doing her homework at the desk in the east wing. "Carve three initials," she said softly, as if afraid of disturbing something. Zhong Hua's knife paused in mid-air: "Whose?"

"You, me, and..." Ah Yu didn't finish her sentence, but tears fell, landing on the key and spreading into a small water stain. Her father's name also started with the letter Z, just like Zhong Hua's. Zhong Hua seemed to understand something. The tip of his knife gently touched the back of the key, and as he engraved the first letter, copper shavings fell down like someone crying silently.

The letters Z, H, and Y are grouped together, with small hooks at the ends of their strokes. Zhong Hua blew on the back of the key: "Once we make a wooden bracket, we can hang it on the lintel." As he looked down, Ah Yu noticed a mole behind his ear, like the one on her father's chin. When she was little, she always loved touching her father's mole, saying it was a mark given by God.

The guesthouse renovation took two months. Zhong Hua came every day, leading the workers to repair the leaky roof and replace the rotten window frames. Ah Yu learned to tidy up the guest rooms, placing dried flowers on the pillows and the porcelain vase her father had left behind on the windowsill. One evening, Zhong Hua was cleaning the door frame on a ladder when he suddenly hummed the song "The Moon Walks, I Walk Too." Ah Yu was drying bed sheets in the courtyard when the wind carried the song over, mixed with the fresh scent of laundry detergent. She suddenly felt that her father was right beside her, sitting in a wicker chair, smiling.

The day before opening, they hung up the signboard. The shrimp-shaped key gleamed warmly in the setting sun, and the three letters were edged with gold. Zhong Hua stood at the bottom of the ladder taking pictures, and Ah Yu suddenly realized that the angle from which he took the pictures was exactly the same as the angle from which her father had taken pictures of her years ago—always slightly tilted back, making people look exceptionally energetic.

“We should name this guesthouse.” Zhong Hua flipped through the photos and suddenly pointed to one. “Let’s call it ‘Key Whisper,’ the whisper of a key.” Ah Yu looked at the signboard and seemed to hear the copper key speaking, saying the words her father hadn’t finished saying.

On opening day, three couples came. An elderly couple said that the house reminded them of the courtyard house they lived in when they were young; a couple liked the desk in the east wing and said they would write their travelogues there; and a young girl stared at the shrimp-shaped doorplate and refused to leave, saying that the key seemed to be smiling at her.

Ah Yu brewed Longjing tea, a legacy from her father, for the guests. The tea leaves unfurled in the water, like newly reborn green leaves. Zhong Hua cooked in the kitchen, learning his father's braised pork recipe. He caramelized the pork with rock sugar and simmered it with Shaoxing wine, filling the entire courtyard with its aroma. During the meal, the elderly couple reminisced about their past. Ah Yu suddenly realized that the guesthouse wasn't just a business, but also a place to hold stories, like this set of keys that held the memories of her family's years.

In the evening, the real estate agent sent another message saying that the demolition project was temporarily suspended and that she should wait for further notice. Ah Yu deleted the message, walked to the door of the east wing, and touched the letters on the doorplate. Zhong Hua stood behind her, holding the willow-leaf-shaped key in his hand: "For the doorplate of the west wing, engrave the initials of your father's name."

Moonlight streamed through the moon gate, falling upon the two of them. Ah Yu suddenly remembered her father saying that bronze has a spirit; if you treat it with care, it will remember all the warm things. At that moment, the shrimp-shaped nameplate gleamed softly in the moonlight, the three letters side by side like three hearts, nestled tightly together.

Zhong Hua's carving knife began to work again, this time carving the initials of his father's name. Copper shavings fell onto the bluestone slab like scattered stardust. Ah Yu looked at his focused profile and suddenly felt that her father had never left; he had simply hidden his love in every inch of this old house, in this key to rebirth, to continue protecting her in the days to come.

The pomegranate tree in the courtyard sprouted new branches, its tender green leaves swaying in the wind. Ah Yu knew that when autumn came, the tree would be laden with red fruit, just as her father had hoped, bearing a harvest of happiness. And those old keys would tell warm stories at every dawn and dusk, accompanying her and every guest who came to "Key of Language," allowing them to feel the gentleness of time.