Spring outing

In the blink of an eye, several years have passed, and moss has climbed all over the courtyard walls. The birds that hop and flutter noisily on the branches and under the eaves have become even more lively.

In the small, well-organized room, Yue Lang was hunched over his desk, writing tirelessly. A small stack of talisman papers was piled up on the corner of the table. Meng Yan sat opposite him, resting his chin on his hand and waving his pen, sketching out blueprints for a new toy in his mind.

The two of them were much more skilled than before, not because of their own efforts, but because of external pressure.

The story goes back a few years. No one knows what happened, but overnight, orders flew into this seemingly ordinary little courtyard from all directions. Carrier pigeons and mechanical sparrows flew back and forth for several days, floating in the air continuously, weaving a long and dense black net. The neighbors were so frightened that they hurriedly went to invite a Taoist priest. But Yue Lang from the next courtyard smiled and knocked on their door, saying, "Since you live nearby, I won't charge you for the journey."

The overwhelming flood of letters not only startled the neighbors, but even the two recipients were speechless with surprise. They frantically sorted through the pages with both hands to take notes. Just as they caught their breath, new birds landed by the window.

Fortunately, the headache only lasted a few days, like a sudden, strong gust of wind that blows away and then disappears, with only occasional gentle breezes returning to refresh me.

In the following years, they realized that it was just the beginning. After sending the first batch of goods, they could never finish the orders. In desperation, the two moved out of their sect to disperse the wind, which probably had some effect. Anyway, their work schedule was booked for several years in advance, and birds still knocked on their windows every day.

"We're so busy we're practically invisible, I wonder what it's like back in our sect," Yue Lang sighed, tossing aside a talisman.

Meng Yan pulled a thought from the blueprints and replied, "No way."

Yue Lang: "..."

In an attempt to salvage their increasingly dejected spirits, Yue Lang boldly suggested, "Let's quit!"

Meng Yan, who was always diligent in his work but lazy in his work, agreed on the spot without thinking.

A wooden kite soared into the blue sky, changing direction according to the two people's moods. As they drifted freely, a village appeared in their sight. Life in the village was still as busy as it had been at the beginning, without any signs of mechanical devices or talismans. After exchanging glances, Yue Lang asked Meng Yan to stop the bird, and the two of them decided to stay in the village temporarily.

Everyone's life was simple yet fulfilling: farming, weaving, washing, cooking, sunrise and sunset, just like the stream beside the village, flowing gently and endlessly without any rush or competition.

One early morning, the soft light of dawn paved a golden path, and children chased and played by in twos and threes. The sunlight made their hair fluffy, and it swung up and down as they ran, like the tender feathers of fledglings that had not yet shed.

Judging from what they said, they must be going to school for morning lessons, and today the teacher's lesson is to learn a short poem.

A glint of light flashed in Meng Yan's eyes. He smiled and took the hand of Yue Lang, who was yawning repeatedly. They walked through a path of golden light and sat down in the back of the hall. Paper and pen were laid out on the table in a very formal manner.

The teacher was a kind old man with white hair but a strong gait and a booming voice. Seeing that these two uninvited guests looked somewhat like students and were well-behaved and silent so as not to disturb the class, he stopped looking at them and focused on teaching poetry.

In his early years, Meng Yan never had the chance to sit in the hall and read a book. But years later, after achieving great success, he had the opportunity to sit with the children and pick up the little regrets of his childhood, mending them back into his body that he no longer needed.

She listened attentively, her gaze fixed on the back of the book in the teacher's hands, following his every step. Every word he said was carefully written down on the page. When she encountered different opinions or novel ideas, she would secretly make a few notes in small characters to look at later.

Halfway through the class, Meng Yan had filled several pages of paper with writing and had nowhere to write, so he had to ask Yue Lang at the next table for help.

Yue Lang spent his rare quiet time in this class. When he first sat down, he was still half-asleep and confused. Fifteen minutes later, he realized that Meng Yan was actually there to listen to the lecture. He immediately straightened his back and became fully focused. Feeling that something was missing, he propped his chin up with his arm, and a small mountain of chin gradually collapsed.

Before the mountain completely turned into the sea, he tried to chat with Meng Yan while his mind was still somewhat unclear, but he closed his mouth when he turned around and saw the person holding a pen in the light and shadow.

Why didn't I realize before how beautiful and warm the sunlight was? A few strands of hair fell onto Yan Yan's neck; did they tickle? Was I staring at her and disturbing her concentration?

Yue Lang reluctantly withdrew his gaze, then looked at the blank pages in front of him. The determination to study hard had just surfaced in his heart when he collapsed onto the table, unconscious.

Looking to the side, Yue's back was soundly asleep, leisurely and content. So close, Meng Yan seemed to see the boy who was fast asleep when he was studying. The blank paper she had left for him was pushed between the two of them. Without saying hello, she took it and continued writing.

It wasn't until the school bell rang, its sound echoing with the children's laughter, that Yue Lang, who had slept all morning, finally woke up. Meeting the gaze that seemed to have been waiting for him, he guiltily got up.

"I did listen to the lecture, but I listened with my eyes closed." He was sleeping very soundly, and his voice was slightly hoarse.

Meng Yan nodded with pleasure, then asked, "What did the Master talk about today?"

Yue Lang felt relieved and breathed a sigh of relief. He had heard this on the way and was certain it was true. He confidently said, "A short poem."

Which line do I like best?

The light in Yue Lang's eyes dimmed instantly. He patted the back of the boy in front of him and tried to negotiate, "Young man, we've been classmates, can I borrow your book for a few seconds?"

The child, his hands smeared with ink, held the book by the corner and handed it to Yue Lang. Yue Lang thanked him gratefully and opened the page. The book was cleaner than the child's face, completely untouched by ink.

He glanced at Meng Yan a few times out of the corner of his eye, and the speed at which he turned the pages became faster and faster. He had never been this fast, not even when his master called on him.

Finally, the book reached its end, revealing a tabletop with a missing piece of the cover. He covered the book with his palm, looked back, and grinned, replying, "Not bad, not too thin, braised pork with bamboo shoots!"

These are lines of poetry that Yan Yan would love!

Unexpectedly, Meng Yan raised his hand and lightly tapped him on the head, the force of which shook several strands of hair. He said angrily, "You're studying the one at the end."

"Huh?" Yue Lang felt extremely wronged. He flipped the book over and pointed to it for Meng Yan to see. "This is the last page of the book. He should have torn the rest out to play with. Look, there's not a trace of it."

As he said, the book did indeed lack a final page; the "Braised Pork with Bamboo Shoots" dish quietly served as the ending.

Meng Yan blinked noncommittally, then led the person who was wasting his time out of the hall, and also carefully packed away his own notes, refusing to let him see them.

The early spring sun shines brightly but not scorchingly, and strolling along the country lanes in the gentle breeze has a unique charm.

However, this moment of leisure belonged to Meng Yan alone. She picked wildflowers by the roadside, turned around and threw them on Yue Lang's head, then ran away without saying a word; she teased the birds in the forest, touching them from head to tail, but refused to let Yue Lang touch them; she wandered around the edges and corners as she pleased, letting Yue Lang follow her, but he just followed her.

Someone was deeply reflecting on themselves. They took the flower that Meng Yan threw to them, not daring to move it, and quietly pinned it in their hair, afraid that it would be blown away by the wind. They watched Meng Yan teasing the birds with great interest, and they hid their hands in their sleeves, reaching out their fingers to imitate her gestures with their eyes, not daring to make a sound. When Meng Yan wandered from the village to the fields, they followed her like a shadow, so that when she was in a good mood, she could turn around and see him.

Not far behind the village is a pond with clear water and green stones. It is like a bright mirror placed between heaven and earth, reflecting the flowing clouds and also capturing the two beautiful figures in it.

Looking through the water at the person behind him, their eyes met, and the person calmly said, "The sky is so blue, so what's your favorite line of poetry?"

Meng Yan picked up a pebble and threw it into the lake. After it hit the water and flew up several times, it disappeared in the middle of the lake.

Yue Lang clapped his hands: "It drifted so far! So, what's your favorite line of poetry?"

Meng Yan quickened his pace, but after taking only two steps, he heard a regretful sigh behind him: "What a cruel heart... So, what's your favorite line of poetry?"

"Guess for yourself." She gave an answer that was tantamount to saying nothing.

"Actually, I don't really want to know either." Yue Lang strode after her, circling around her. He caught the flower petals that were about to fall from her head, carefully tucked them back in, and hummed indifferently, "So, which poem is it?"

Meng Yan smiled and winked at him with her right eye: "I don't know, I fell asleep in class and didn't listen carefully."

Yue Lang pursed his lips and swept the pebbles at his feet into the water, listening to them splashing in his mind. Nothing remained but the splashes of water.

The holiday, which brought joy to some and sorrow to others, came to an end, and the two returned to their monotonous and tedious work routine. Even though a long time had passed, Yue Lang would still ask from time to time, "Which poem? Which line?"

Every time he asked, Meng Yan would smile but not answer, but the joy on his face was genuine, which made Yue Lang begin to wonder if the Master in heaven really taught poetry.

.

The summer heat intensified, and the scorching sun washed away all the mud accumulated in spring. Fortunately, the ice furnace provided shelter, allowing the two busy workers, whose hands never rested, to continue their work.

The carving knife in his hand scraped away a few wood shavings, and the spirit of the wood surfaced, waiting for its owner to further refine it.

Meng Yan raised the slender knife and tried several spots on the wood, but none of them were satisfactory. He frowned slightly and flipped the wooden block over to find a suitable landing point.

Turning her head to change angles, her gaze drifted to Yue Lang's hand, then gradually moved upwards, catching sight of his eyebrows and eyes. Before he could finish writing and catch her, she turned back, a smile playing on her lips.

"What are you doing? I saw everything!" Yue Lang said, his hands moving non-stop as he spread out a new sheet of paper and dipped it in cinnabar.

Meng Yan put down the wooden block and waved his hand: "You didn't see anything. I was focused on this little guy the whole time."

Yue Lang nodded and said, "Since you've said that, I'll admit I was seeing things."

Who's so blind that they can read someone else's long string of sign language? Meng Yan raised an eyebrow and picked up the small piece of wood.

In fact, usually the two of them would stop working and rest before the sun was this strong, with an iced drink in one hand and dried fruit in the other. But today they were working hard to finish their work by using the ice stove.

The reason for this was that when it was cool in the early morning, Meng Yan poked Yue Lang, who pulled him down by the hand, and in his drowsy state, he turned over and lightly kissed her lips, saying that it was still early.

It truly reflects the poem: "The woman says, 'The rooster crows,' the man says, 'It's still dark.'"