"This house must be quite old," Chen Mo remarked, tilting his head back and gazing at the carved window lattice on the second floor. It was a set of openwork patterns depicting plum blossoms, orchids, bamboo, and chrysanthemums. Although some parts were cracked, the craftsman's exquisite skill was still evident. A fat cat was dozing on the windowsill when it was startled by the sudden intrusion. It meowed in annoyance and lazily flicked its tail.
The aroma of food wafted from the depths of the alley, the unique scent of a wood-fired stove, a blend of rice and cured meat. Ah Yu's stomach growled at just the right moment, making Sister Lin laugh. Old Zhou, however, stopped in front of an old photo studio. The glass display case held yellowed photographs: newlyweds in wedding dresses, children with braids, and a black-and-white photo of an old stone arch bridge, filled with people wearing straw hats, against a backdrop of endless rice paddies.
"Boss, are you still open?" Old Zhou pushed the slightly ajar wooden door, the hinges creaking. A middle-aged man wearing round-framed glasses emerged, his apron stained with developer. "Want a quick photo? Ready in a minute." He pointed to an old-fashioned Seagull camera in the corner, the gold lettering on the bellows now faded. Chen Mo's eyes lit up, and he immediately pulled out his own camera, discussing aperture and shutter speed with the man. The fatigue from the train ride had vanished completely.
IV. Wrinkles of Time
As I sat down at the teahouse at the alley entrance, the water in the copper kettle was just boiling. The teahouse owner was a lean old man, wearing a short-sleeved jacket, his fingernails stained with tea stains that couldn't be washed off. He grabbed a handful of bright green tea leaves into a rough porcelain bowl, then lifted the copper kettle, pouring the boiling water into the bowl in a parabolic motion. The tea leaves unfurled and swirled in the water, immediately releasing a clear tea liquor. "Try it," the old man said in accented Mandarin, "it's cloud and mist tea grown on my own mountain."
Ah Yu held the teacup, the steam blurring her glasses. The first sip tasted slightly bitter, followed by a sweet aftertaste that spread from the back of her tongue, carrying the unique crispness of the mountains. Sister Lin raised the teacup to her nose and sniffed lightly, "It smells like pine cones." Old Zhou sipped slowly, his gaze fixed on the old osmanthus tree in the yard, a wooden plaque nailed to its trunk reading "Age: 120 years."
Sunlight filtered through the gaps in the grape trellis, casting coin-like dappled patterns on the table. A few chicks darted under the table, their fluffy yellow forms tempting Ah Yu to catch them, but they chirped and dodged away. In the distance came the sound of a night watchman striking his clapper, "dong—dong—," two long, clear sounds that rang out distinctly in the quiet afternoon.
"Are there still night watchmen?" Chen Mo put down his camera, his face full of curiosity. The old man in the teahouse wiped the table and said slowly, "The night watchman isn't there to tell the time, but to keep the town quiet. Otherwise, if it's too quiet, people will get anxious." He pointed to the old grandfather clock on the wall, its hands pointing to 3:15. "This clock is from the Republic of China era. It runs slow, so it needs to be set three times a day."
Ah Yu suddenly realized that time seemed to flow at a different pace here. It wasn't the precise seconds and minutes punctuated by clocks in the city, but rather like the stream in front of the door, flowing leisurely and unhurriedly. The footsteps on the stone path, the laughter in the teahouse, and the distant sound of the wooden clapper all contributed to the rhythm of time. She remembered the itinerary she had prepared while staying up all night before her departure, now lying quietly deep inside her backpack; those arrangements, precise down to the minute, seemed so out of place here.
“Look at that,” Sister Lin pointed to the rooftop across the street. A black cat was perched on the blue tiles, slowly licking its paws. Sunlight cast its shadow on the white wall, moving gently with its movements. The shadow was like a living ink painting, its brushstrokes filled with languid poetry. Ah Yu suddenly felt that this was how time should be—not prey to be chased, but a landscape to be quietly contemplated.
V. Light in the Dust
As evening approached, the sunlight softened, deepening the color of the blue tiles. Ah Yu walked alone to the stream at the edge of town, took off her shoes, and dipped her feet into the water. The water was cool, slippery with the scent of water plants, and the pebbles beneath her feet felt strangely comfortable. Several red dragonflies skimmed the surface, their wings as transparent as glass in the sunset.
She recalled her mother's phone call before she left, "What's the point of going to such a small place? You might as well stay home and rest." Her mother didn't know how much comfort the blue tiles and white walls of the ancient towns in "The Chronicle of Ancient Towns in Jiangnan" had given her when she was struggling to breathe in the subway crowds, when she looked at her weary reflection on the glass curtain wall of the office building. Now, standing on real earth, smelling the air mixed with cooking smoke and moisture, the anxieties accumulated in the city were soothed away like a stream flowing over pebbles.
"What are you daydreaming about?" Chen Mo's voice came from behind. He held a camera in his hand, with a photo he had just taken still hanging on the lens—the fat cat that had been dozing on the windowsill. "Look at this light," he handed the camera to Ah Yu, "it's a photographer's paradise." On the screen, the cat's fur was edged with gold by the setting sun, its pupils narrowed into thin amber lines, and the background was a mottled wooden window, every grain of wood clearly visible.
Sister Lin and Old Zhou came over carrying the mountain produce they had just bought. The bamboo basket contained wild berries, dried bamboo shoots, and a bundle of herbs with roots still attached. "The villagers said this is good for clearing heat and detoxifying," Old Zhou showed off like a treasure, "It's much fresher than what's sold in the city." Sister Lin held a box of freshly made osmanthus cakes, the steam rising from the oil paper wrapping, filling the air with a sweet fragrance.
The four walked back along the stream, their shadows stretched long by the setting sun, occasionally overlapping. Ah Yu heard her footsteps blend with the sounds of the flowing water and the wind, creating a harmonious rhythm. In the distance, in the town of Qingwa, smoke began to rise from the chimneys of every house, pale blue wisps slowly ascending in the twilight and eventually merging into the deepening night.
She suddenly realized that the meaning of this trip might not lie in escaping, but in discovery. Discovering that sunlight can have a scent, that architecture can breathe, that time can have wrinkles, and that the beauty covered by the dust of the city had always been there. Just like the stream at her feet, seemingly ordinary, yet suddenly reflecting a stream full of starlight.
As the last rays of sunlight brushed past the highest eaves, Ah Yu glanced back. Qingwa Town lay silent in the twilight, like a gradually unfolding ink painting. She knew that tomorrow, this land would greet them in even more vibrant ways, but at this moment, she only wanted to pack away this moment of tranquility, along with the scent of grass and earth in the air, as a secret weapon against the clamor of the future.
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