On the fifth night, when yet another cone burned too quickly, leaving little more than a faint curl of smoke that twisted upward like a dying question before vanishing into the rafters, Qiyao sat long in the silence that followed.
The small shrine held its breath with him. Moonlight slipped between the bamboo lattice of the window in thin, silver blades, slicing across the worn wooden floorboards and pooling in shallow puddles of pale light. The air inside was cool and still, heavy with the ghost of failed incense: a faint bitterness that lingered on the tongue, the aftertaste of something hurried and incomplete. Outside, the bamboo grove stirred restlessly, long stems knocking softly against one another in the night wind, a low, wooden susurrus that sounded almost like distant rain.
He looked at the empty bowl of lilies upon the altar. The porcelain was cracked in fine spider-lines along the rim, and the flowers—once proud white trumpets—now lay withered inside it, their petals curled inward like clenched fists, browned at the edges and dusted with faint mold. Their former fragrance had retreated to a mere whisper, so delicate it could only be caught when he leaned close enough for his breath to stir them.
He looked at the book beside it. The pages had yellowed at the corners from years of handling; the ink remained steady, black characters frozen in their patient rows, offering the same unchanging counsel no matter how many times he returned to them.
Then he lowered his gaze to his own open palms, the faint dark stains of resin still visible along the lifelines, and whispered, almost to himself:
"If smoke is memory… then perhaps I am not ready to remember clearly."
The words drifted upward and were swallowed by the bamboo wind outside, carried away into the dark grove where fireflies blinked like scattered embers.
Yet even as the admission left his lips, his hand moved of its own accord toward the mortar again. The stone bowl sat cool and heavy on the low table, waiting.
The moon had climbed high, bathing the shrine in a cold, colorless glow, when he finally finished shaping the new set of sticks. He laid them in careful rows upon the smooth board, their surfaces uneven—some thicker at one end, others slightly bowed—their forms imperfect, yet whole in a way his earlier attempts had never been. Each one carried the faint imprint of his fingertips, the subtle warmth of his patience.
He rose, crossed to the small basin in the corner, and washed the sticky resin from his fingers. The water came from the spring higher on the hill; it ran icy even in summer, numbing his skin as he scrubbed. He cupped a handful and pressed it to his face, letting the chill sink into his cheeks, his closed eyelids, as though to cool the restless heat behind his thoughts.
When he returned to his mat, the book lay closed upon the table beside him. The faintest scent of lilies still clung to the air—thin, ghostly—mingled now with the dry bite of ash and the deeper, resinous undertone of his labor. He pulled the thin quilt over himself and lay staring up at the shadowed beams overhead, where cobwebs trembled faintly in the drafts.
Sleep came slowly, reluctant. And in the blurred edge of it, Qiyao thought—perhaps the flower was testing him, as much as the smoke was. Perhaps both were waiting for him to slow down enough to meet them on their own terms.
The next morning arrived wrapped in mist. The bamboo grove beyond the shrine walls stood half-dissolved in white, the tall stems fading into vapor at their tops. Dew clung to every leaf, every joint, glittering like scattered glass when the first weak sunlight pierced the fog. Inside, the air felt damp and close; the scent of yesterday's resin had settled into the wood itself.
Qiyao returned to the book with sharper attention. He had read the words before, many times, but now he lingered longer on each brushstroke, tracing them slowly with his fingertip as though he could feel the intention behind them.
Spread petals in shade. Let them dry slowly, until they crumble with ease. No less than seven days, else the fragrance will not hold.
Seven days.
The number settled into him like a stone dropped into still water. Qiyao exhaled quietly, the sound barely disturbing the hush. His first attempts had rushed everything—plucking petals in haste, drying them in a single impatient afternoon beneath a shaft of afternoon sun, shaping incense the same evening, lighting them before the paste had truly settled. He saw now how much violence he had done to the process, how he had tried to force memory rather than allow it to unfold.
So, this time, he set aside haste.
He gathered the last of the lilies from the cracked bowl. Their bells hung limp, yet a trace of sweetness still breathed from them when he lifted them close—fragile, almost apologetic. With deliberate care he spread each petal flat upon a clean cloth he had washed only the day before. One by one he arranged them, smoothing the curling edges with the pad of his thumb, until the white square of fabric resembled a pale, scattered field.
He carried the cloth to the shaded corner of the shrine, the northwest alcove where the wall met the sloping eaves. Here the breeze passed gently through gaps in the bamboo screen, cool and constant, but no direct sun ever reached. Dust motes drifted lazily in the dimness; the floorboards creaked faintly beneath his weight.
Seven days.
He wrote the number down on a small scrap of paper—simple, black ink, firm strokes—and set it atop the low table beside the cloth, as though carving the promise into his own patience.
The first day passed almost without change. The petals lay soft and faintly damp, their surfaces still holding the illusion of life. Qiyao left them untouched. Instead, he turned to the shrine's small repairs: he fetched the small hammer from the corner chest and drove fresh nails into beams that had loosened over the rainy season, the sharp metallic ring echoing briefly before being absorbed by the grove outside. He patched gaps in the eaves with strips of spare cloth, pressing them firmly into place with thin slivers of bamboo. Each task was small, deliberate, a quiet way of keeping his hands busy while time did its slower work.
In the evenings, when the mist thickened again and the grove grew dim, he lit the sandalwood incense he had bought at the market weeks earlier. The sticks burned steadily, their smoke rising in calm, unbroken columns—thicker, more grounded than the lily attempts. He sat cross-legged before the altar and watched it coil toward the rafters, a quiet reminder of what he sought: not mere scent, but permanence.
On the third day the edges of the petals began to curl inward, their whiteness dimming to a soft, pale ivory. The air in the alcove carried a faint dry sweetness now, less watery than before. Qiyao knelt once, touched one petal lightly with the tip of his finger; it bent but did not break. He withdrew his hand at once, as though afraid to disturb the slow alchemy taking place.
By the fifth day they had grown brittle. A few shattered beneath the slightest pressure, scattering into fine powder that dusted the cloth like pale snow. He gathered only the strongest petals, leaving the weakest behind to crumble on their own. When he pressed one of the survivors to his palm and inhaled, the fragrance was faint still, but sharper—cleaner, more defined, like a memory beginning to surface through fog.
The seventh day arrived at last beneath a sky the color of old porcelain. The mist had lifted; pale sunlight filtered through the bamboo, dappling the shrine floor in moving patterns of light and shadow. Qiyao lifted each petal one by one, cradling them in his cupped hands. They crumbled with perfect ease, releasing their scent in small, grateful sighs.
He gathered the fragile powder into a small cloth pouch, tying it closed with careful knots.
This time, he worked slowly.
The mortar received the petals like an old friend. The pestle pressed down in steady, unhurried rhythm—soft whisper of stone against stone, almost meditative. Fine powder rose in gentle clouds, carrying that same sweet, fragile scent into the air around him.
He sieved it with patience, tilting and shaking until every grain was fine and uniform. The book's warning returned to him like a quiet voice at his shoulder: Coarse pieces burn unevenly.
He measured the pine resin in careful parts—three to one, as instructed—its golden tears gleaming in the low light. Drop by drop he added spring water, kneading the paste between his fingers until it held together without cracking. His skin grew sticky, warm; the sharp, woody scent of resin clung stubbornly to every crease.
At last he shaped the thin sticks, rolling each one with steady pressure along the board. They lay in neat, imperfect lines—some slightly crooked, others thicker in the middle—yet they held their form.
Dry in shade for another seven days. Guard from dampness, for even a breath of water ruins the scent.
Seven more days.
Qiyao sat back on his heels and looked at the rows of pale sticks. The shrine was quiet again, save for the distant rustle of bamboo and the soft creak of settling wood. Somewhere deep in the grove a single bird called once, then fell silent.
He exhaled, long and slow.
Time, he thought, was not the enemy after all.
It was the teacher.