---
The moon was a thin thread laid across a dark cloth, a line so fine the river carried it without effort. Lanterns along the pier burned low, their glow steady as if they had agreed with the night not to compete. The air was made of small sounds, oars that did not splash, ropes that did not complain, voices that knew why they were here and did not need to say more than that.
Shy Lin came first, a sealed jar of river water held close to her chest. It had never met salt or spice. Before dawn she had risen, rinsed it in the current, and let the glass learn the shape of clean. Sparrow Chen walked beside her with an empty kettle and two cloths, one meant for work, one meant for respect. Lin Xun carried the old pot in both hands, the folded pavilion cloth tucked inside his sleeve, the quiet scale in a wooden box that had once held a pair of table weights.
At the arch, a guard lifted a lantern but asked nothing. Lin Xun set the willow token in his palm. The guard looked, did not touch, and stepped aside. The plank waited, the river calm, the barge beneath two willows that combed the air with long, thin fingers.
They crossed. The deck held the strength of old wood under their feet. A faint breath of tea came from a brazier ringed with stones. The Patron, dressed in river green, stood by the rail and nodded once... not greeting only them, but greeting the night as well.
"Thank you for coming," he said. "Bring the cloth. Bring the water. Bring the quiet thing that looks like a scale and acts like a promise."
Lin Xun set the cloth upon the table. The deck settled by the depth of a finger. He placed the pot at its center, the wooden box beside it. Shy Lin set the jar of river water near the stones, Sparrow Chen loosening the lid to show the lantern light through the clear body within. No scent but river and night.
Four figures waited apart. Two in silk that had not done work for a long time. The presence of sandalwood with them like a servant. One man in plain linen the color of old rope, his hands healed over and over from the same labour. One woman in a dark coat with a ripple sewn at the hem, her gaze calm as someone who keeps maps in her mind.
The Patron gestured. "This table is for speaking without weapons. Sit if you came for that."
The woman in the dark coat sat at once. The rope-handed man followed after a glance at the water, then the sky. The two in silk sat because the deck allowed it, not because they wished to. Sandalwood drifted in behind them like a shadow that wanted to be a smell.
Lin Xun warmed the pot. The quiet scale rested on the lid for the space of a breath before he lifted it away. Bright Lotus for a clean line, Quiet Reed for the room, a breath of roasted oolong so that hard words would have a place to sit when they arrived. The ladle dipped to the river water, the lip touched, the air slid, the bowl filled without a sound. Calm Pour. Inner wall, center, nothing. Lid lifted and set once… again… again. Steam rose and found the willow shade, then stayed.
The Patron did not take a cup. His nod went to the guests. "Let the river hear you after it hears this."
Four plain cups. A square, one before each guest. A fifth poured and placed on the rail for the water.
They drank. The rope-handed man kept his gaze from his neighbours, but his shoulders eased. The woman let a line leave her brow that had been there for months. The silk men tried to sip without breath. The breath won.
The Patron folded his hands. "Speak your names," he said, "and then speak only what your breath can carry. Nothing that needs a shout belongs here."
The rope-handed man was Jiao of the upper quay, keeper of three cargo crews, ferries in winter, barges in spring. The woman was Wen of the water office... not a tax hand, a record hand, two inks. The first silk man smiled, speaking for a guild that liked order. The second smiled the same and did not give a name.
Wen touched her empty cup with one finger. "The canals brought trade. The canals also brought men who sell the right to stand at corners. I would like fewer men at corners."
Jiao nodded. "At night, ropes vanish. In the morning, a contract says the ropes belonged to the corner men. I would like the corner to be a place where rope is rope."
The first silk man smiled wider. "We do not control corners. We only offer protection from the chaos they create."
Sparrow Chen looked at the ribbon tied to the lantern post, then out at the water. He said nothing. Shy Lin's eyes stayed on the deck corners, where small trouble begins.
The second infusion came without change to the leaf. The quiet scale rested a breath, no more. The cups were filled again without request. Steam rose in a shape like a barge wake, narrowing, then resting over the table.
"Speak what you brought, and what you hid," the Patron said. "If you cannot do both, drink and wait."
Wen lifted her cup but did not drink. "The water office is thin. Too few hands for the work, too many for the money. We cannot patrol every dock. We count boats, we count crates, we do not count shadows. I want dock elders to share the midnight watch, but they will not unless you stand there to hear them agree."
Jiao drank, setting his cup down with care. "I cannot keep paying a toll at the bend. I hid that I paid it anyway, because the last time I did not, a boat took on water in a place where boats do not."
Sandalwood sweetened. The first silk man's fingernail tapped the plank, a coin wanting to be noticed. The second watched the steam as if it were numbers.
Lin Xun did not rush the third pour. He warmed the cups with steam along the rim. The quiet scale set aside, the small metal petal on the lid for a breath. One cup returned to the rail where the first had rested. The steam touched the ribbon again like a hand welcome to do so.
The Patron's gaze fixed on the silk men. "Speak what your guild wants."
The first silk man's smile held. "To keep trade smooth. Only a small share of each cargo, the right to collect without delay."
"Small," Wen said. "Small the first month, larger the second, standard the third. A standard that grows and is never written."
The second silk man looked from the jar to the pot to Lin Xun's hands. "You brought a new face to an old song. People like new faces. Songs do not change."
Sparrow Chen smiled without teeth. "Some songs learn new ears."
A sharp scent crept along the deck... not tea, but incense from the stern post. Shy Lin moved the shutter the width of a finger. The wind shifted. The scent found its maker and left the table.
No one spoke of it.
"Let us do this," the Patron said. "A week without corner collections. No midnight tolls at the bend. The water office will post the watch. The quay elders take the first three nights. The fourth goes to the tea shop by East Lane."
Jiao's voice was soft. "The tea shop."
"The Emerald Leaf," Wen said, eyes warming. "I have heard of its quiet cups."
"The guild may send a clerk to observe, not to collect. If the clerk speaks before the watch, I will close your stalls for a week and lend your customers to rivals for another."
The first silk man's smile worked to stay in place. The second laid a hand on the table, lifted it. "We will observe," he said evenly.
A final light pour to carry the agreement. Steam rose thin and true, touched the table's edges and stayed. Wen sealed a slip. Jiao pressed a thumb into clay. The Patron wrote one line, folded it. The silk men watched, but did not reach for brushes.
A soft foot at the far rail, a clean scent of iron and pine. The ribbon twitched, then stilled. The step went on.
"We are done for tonight," the Patron said. "The river heard. The ribbon pointed. Return in seven nights with honest reports. If the week holds, we will make a month. If not, we will pour again and see where the crack is."
Wen bowed. Jiao bowed deeper until his back reminded him of his work. The silk men bowed as men do when they plan to bow again to something richer. They left with sandalwood not quite finding its shape.
Shutters closed partway. The wind rested behind the wood. The barge creaked as though old boards shared a quiet joke.
"You did not try to make the river louder than it is," the Patron told Lin Xun. "Thank you."
From his sleeve he took a pouch, three pale threads of leaf like frost. "River frost. It forms on the reeds for one hour on one winter night. Soak in cold water before brewing. Do not sell it. Give it only to those who need a thought to settle without sleep."
"I will treat it as a guest," Lin Xun said.
"Good. Keep the token close. Some see it as favour. Some as warning. It is both."
Sparrow Chen folded the cloth. Shy Lin tied a clean strip around the jar lid. Lin Xun put the quiet scale in its box, his palm on the pot's lid... warm, even, ready.
At the plank's edge, a figure stepped from the rail's shadow. Elder Huo, hands in sleeves, eyes bright as river stones. He had come without entourage. He had listened without asking to be known.
"You pour like a man who knows how to carry," he said. "Carry carefully. When you carry other people's words, do not place your own feet where theirs should go."
"I will remember."
Huo inclined his head, stepped back into the place where lantern and night shook hands.
They crossed the plank. The pier spoke with rope and water. The city waited with half-shut windows. A thin song from a doorway stopped when the singer smiled to herself.
On the walk back, Shy Lin held the jar close. Sparrow Chen counted lanterns without looking like counting. Lin Xun carried pot and box as if they were sleeping children.
At the spice store's corner, a boy with a pear basket waved, then hid his hand. They waved back and left him his secret.
The Emerald Leaf stood with its door dark, its windows clean. Inside, the world of cups and cloths and the counter's good weight waited. No lamp lit. The pot set in place, the sound recognised by the room.
Lin Xun opened the box, set the quiet scale on the lid for a breath, lifted it, repeated. He closed the box. The pouch of river frost beside it. Two small things looking at each other without moving, making a promise.
They sat with no cups. The room drank. The walls listened. The floorboards rested in their memory of work.
"Seven nights," Sparrow Chen said softly. "The guild will try to make one loud."
"Then we will make the other six quiet enough to teach the seventh," Shy Lin said.
Lin Xun touched the pot, warm like a hand after holding another. "We will pour when asked. We will not chase. We will not hide. We will let the room be itself."
Outside, the river moved along its line, patient and sure. The moon's thread lay on its back and did not slip. Near the bend, sandalwood tried a new smile. Beneath the willow, the ribbon remembered its direction.
Morning was far. The night not yet finished. The teahouse slept in its own way, awake enough to listen, quiet enough to keep what it heard.
---