The east street of Zhuyin lay wrapped in an unusual hush. Far behind him the market's usual din—vendors hawking steamed buns, children shrieking as they chased wooden tops, the rhythmic clack of abacus beads—faded into a distant murmur, like waves retreating from shore. Here the air tasted of damp stone, sun-heated cedar, and the faint metallic bite of old iron. Crooked houses leaned shoulder to shoulder as though sharing secrets; moss softened their tiled roofs to velvet green, and shutters, patched with whatever planks could be spared, wore a patchwork of faded blues, greens, and weathered browns. High overhead, ropes of laundry drooped in gentle arcs, their colors long since bled pale by rain and relentless sunlight. The cloths stirred only when a lazy afternoon breeze remembered to pass through.
Qiyao walked without haste. In the crook of his left arm rested a modest bundle of lilies-of-the-valley, their white bells still glistening from the morning mist he had gathered them in. Each step he took felt measured, deliberate, as though the very ground might notice if he hurried.
At the street's gentle bend the narrow wooden door waited, almost invisible between two sagging walls that seemed ready to embrace each other and close the gap forever. Above the lintel hung a small sign on rusted hooks. The paint had flaked away in places, yet the characters remained stubborn: Books & Paper. The words looked as tired and enduring as the man who had written them decades ago.
He pushed the door inward. A single brass bell, small and tarnished, gave one faint, reluctant chime before the stillness of the interior swallowed the sound whole.
Inside, time had settled like fine dust. Sunlight entered only in thin, slanted blades through half-closed shutters, illuminating drifting motes that moved with the slowness of dreams. Shelves lined every wall, bowing under the patient weight of books stacked in uneven towers; scrolls rested in wide wicker baskets like sleeping birds; bundles of loose rice paper, tied with faded red string, waited in neat rows on lower shelves. The air carried three scents layered upon one another: dry cedar from the wood, the powdery breath of old paper, and—faint but unmistakable—the ghost of sweetness, as though someone, years earlier, had pressed jasmine or osmanthus between pages and then forgotten to retrieve them.
Behind a low counter of polished camphor wood sat an elderly man. His hair, what remained of it, was fine and white as spun silk. His robe, patched at the elbows and hem, had once been indigo but now hovered somewhere between twilight and ash. Yet when he lifted his head, his eyes—pale, clouded at the edges by cataracts—held no trace of frailty. They regarded Qiyao with the calm, unhurried attention of someone who had long ago stopped expecting surprises from the world, yet still welcomed them when they arrived.
"You are not from this village," the old man said. His voice was low, almost musical, carrying the slight rasp of many winters.
Qiyao inclined his head in the smallest bow. "No."
A slow nod answered him, as though this single word had confirmed a private suspicion held for years. "Few strangers remain long in Zhuyin. The place does not hold them. Fewer still find this door. Most walk past with eyes fixed on the stones ahead, never noticing the sign above."
He closed the book lying open before him, fingertips lingering on the cover as though bidding it good night. Dust rose in a faint sigh. His gaze drifted downward to the lilies cradled against Qiyao's sleeve. The corners of his mouth lifted—just enough to suggest a smile that had not been used in a long while.
"And fewer yet," he added softly, "carry such flowers into a place like this."
Qiyao stepped forward and laid the lilies gently on the counter. Their fragrance rose immediately, delicate and persistent, threading through the heavier smells of paper and wood like a silver needle.
After a measured silence, Qiyao spoke. "I came to ask whether you have a book about incense."
The old man's brows rose a fraction. He leaned back on his stool, folding thin hands in his lap. "Incense…" He let the word rest on his tongue, tasting it as one might taste an unfamiliar tea. For several heartbeats he said nothing more.
His gaze wandered across the shelves—to the sagging stacks, the shadowed corners, the patient accumulations of decades. "In the years I have kept this shop," he said at last, "men and women have come asking for many things. Manuals of acupuncture to mend broken bodies. Farmer's almanacs to predict rain and frost. Story collections of ancient battles so they might feel courageous while drinking in the evening. Even forbidden medical texts promising longevity." His voice dropped softer. "But a book about incense… that request has not crossed this threshold in longer than I care to count."
The silence that followed felt neither uncomfortable nor empty. Qiyao stood motionless, giving the old man room to think. The lilies on the counter seemed to breathe with the room.
At length the shopkeeper spoke again. "Tell me plainly—why incense? If fragrance is all you seek, the herb sellers in the lower market offer bundles of cheap sandalwood sticks. They burn quickly and cost little."
Qiyao lowered his eyes to the flowers. When he answered, his voice came slow and careful, each word placed like a stone in a shallow stream. "Not for fragrance alone. I wish… to remember."
Something shifted in the old man's expression—not pity, not curiosity, but a quiet recognition, as though a long-closed door inside him had cracked open.
"To remember," he repeated, tasting the phrase again. "That is rarer than gold." He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on the worn counter. "Most people burn incense only to banish. To cover the stink of rotting food, to drive mosquitoes from summer rooms, to mask the heavy smell that lingers after mourning. Very few think of smoke as something that can preserve. That can hold a memory close instead of letting it drift away."
He paused, studying Qiyao's still face. Then, gently: "Whom do you wish to keep near?"
Qiyao's fingers tightened on the counter's edge—so slightly that only someone watching closely would notice. He kept his gaze lowered. "Someone beyond the reach of ordinary words. Someone who no longer answers when I call."
The old man did not press for details. He only nodded once, slowly, as though Qiyao had spoken everything that needed saying.
"Then patience will be your first requirement," he murmured. "Incense is not a craft of haste. A flower must offer itself twice—once when it opens to the sun, once when it surrenders to fire. Few people are willing to wait through both stages."
His hand drifted toward the lilies. Fingertips brushed the paper-wrapped stems with the tenderness of long habit. "Lily of the valley," he said almost reverently. "So small, so modest. Not showy like peonies, not intoxicating like tuberose at midnight. Yet its sweetness is stubborn. It lingers in the mind long after the petals have fallen and the stem has dried."
He lifted his clouded eyes to meet Qiyao's. "Perhaps the flower chose you as much as you chose it."
Another quiet settled. Outside, distant voices rose and fell like wind through reeds. Inside, only the soft creak of old wood accompanied their breathing.
"I believe," the old man said at last, "there is something here that might serve you. Not one of those ponderous temple volumes filled with ritual prohibitions and lengthy chants. Something simpler. A manual written by a woman who spent her life among flowers and resins, working in silence and patience."
He rose carefully, joints protesting with faint clicks, and moved toward the shelves. His hand trailed over leather and cloth spines, pausing now and then as though listening for a familiar heartbeat among the books.
As he searched, he continued speaking without turning. "One last question, if I may. Do you believe incense can do more than perfume the air?"
Qiyao's answer came without hesitation, steady as a drawn bowstring. "I believe smoke can carry what words cannot. What hands cannot hold. What time tries to erase."
The old man gave a low sound—not quite a laugh, more an approving hum deep in his chest. "Then you already possess the most important knowledge most never find."
Dust rose in faint, golden clouds as he continued his search.
At last he returned, cradling a slender volume. Its cloth cover had faded to the soft gray of spent ashes; corners were frayed, spine loosening at the threads, yet the book was clearly cherished. He placed it beside the lilies with the same care one might use to set down a sleeping child.
"This one," he said, voice carrying quiet certainty rather than pride. "Written not for scholars or priests, but for hands like yours—patient hands, searching hands. The characters are plain, the sentences unadorned. Yet truth often chooses the simplest garments."
Qiyao touched the cover. It felt cool, as though it had rested for decades in shadow. He opened it slowly. Yellowed pages greeted him, clean despite their age, the brushstrokes even and deliberate. The opening lines rose to meet his eyes:
"Smoke remembers what fire consumes. Choose your materials with reverence, for each carries its own memory. Let the blend be small, let the burning be slow. In this way the past may speak again, if only for a breath."
He closed the book gently and looked up at the old man.
Outside, the east street remained quiet. Inside, two men and a small bundle of lilies shared the same careful silence—one remembering, one helping to remember, and the smoke yet to come.