Qiyao stood in the dim light of the bookshop, the slender volume open in his hands. The old man remained seated behind the counter, watching with patient stillness as Qiyao read the opening words.
Incense is the memory of a flower carried by fire. To make it is to preserve what would otherwise be lost.
The instructions followed in a simple, unadorned hand:
Choosing the bloom. Select only flowers gathered at dawn, when their essence is strongest. If they are wilted, they will yield only smoke without soul. Drying. Spread petals on clean cloth in shade and air. Let them dry slowly, until they crumble with ease. Grinding. Crush the petals into powder with a mortar of stone. Sieve until fine, for coarse pieces burn unevenly. Binding. Mix powder with makko—resin from the tabu tree—three parts to one. Add water drop by drop, until it forms a paste that holds. Shaping. Roll thin sticks, or press into small cones. Let them rest upon wood or clay. Drying again. Leave in shade for seven days. Guard from dampness, for even a breath of water ruins the scent. Burning. Light gently. Do not scorch. Let smoke rise slow, and remember the flower as it once lived.
Qiyao read in silence. His eyes lingered on each line. The words were plain—almost like a recipe for broth or steamed rice—yet beneath their simplicity lay something deeper. Reverence. Patience. The quiet understanding that memory could not be forced, only coaxed.
The old man observed him without speaking, letting the silence do its work.
"It is not difficult," the old man said at last, "yet not easy either. Many who tried grew restless before the seven days had passed. They wanted fragrance quickly, and so what they made was weak. But those who waited found the flower again—sometimes even truer than before."
Qiyao closed the book with care, his palm resting on the faded cover as though to hold its promise steady.
"Where does one find this resin… makko?" he asked.
"From bark brought by traders, sometimes. Rare here, but a little remains in my store." The old man's eyes softened, a faint amusement flickering in their clouded depths. "I keep such things not for profit, but because it comforts me to know they are near. Perhaps I was waiting for someone to ask again."
Qiyao bowed his head slightly. "I will pay what is needed."
The old man waved a thin, wrinkled hand. "We will speak of payment later. Tell me first—why lilies?"
Qiyao hesitated. His gaze dropped to the bundle still resting on the counter. The white bells hung motionless, fragile yet unbroken.
"They… are what I remember most clearly," he said at last. His voice remained steady, though quieter than before.
The old man nodded slowly, as though the answer carried its own weight and needed no further explanation.
"Lily of the valley," he murmured. "A flower of devotion. Its fragrance is not loud, but it lingers. Long ago, some believed it could guide lost spirits back to where they belonged. Perhaps that is what you seek."
Qiyao's fingers tightened briefly on the book's edge.
The old man did not press. He lowered himself back onto his stool with careful movements. His pale eyes rested on Qiyao for a long moment.
"Take it, then. This book. And a small jar of resin, enough for your first attempts. Fail, and fail again if you must. But do not treat the smoke lightly. In it, you place more than petals—you place memory, prayer, and longing."
Qiyao bowed again, deeper this time. "I understand."
The old man's smile was faint, almost wistful. "Good. Few who enter this shop understand that books are not just for the mind, but for the heart. To burn incense without care is no better than burning straw. But you… I think you will treat it rightly."
Silence returned, comfortable now. Outside, footsteps passed along the east street, muffled by thick walls. Inside, the air held lilies, dust, old paper, and the soft rustle of pages as Qiyao closed the book fully.
He reached into his pouch and placed several coins on the counter.
"For the book. And the resin."
The old man glanced at them but made no move to collect the money.
"Payment is not always in coins," he said softly. "Promise me you will burn what you make with respect, and that will be worth more."
Qiyao met his gaze directly. "I promise."
The old man's smile deepened, carving gentle lines into his weathered face. "Then take it, stranger-who-is-no-longer-strange. May your smoke rise true."
Qiyao gathered the book, the lilies, and the small clay jar of resin the old man retrieved from a shadowed shelf behind him. He held everything close, careful not to bruise the flowers or jar.
As he stepped back into the street, the evening air greeted him—warm, golden, heavy with the scent of approaching dusk. The door closed behind him with a faint chime of the bell, then silence.
The east street remained quiet, but something within Qiyao had shifted. He no longer carried only anticipation. In his arms rested purpose—fragile, deliberate, like smoke waiting to be born.
The sun had dipped lower while he was inside. Its light pooled in soft gold along the crooked roofs and slanted across the lane in long, lazy shadows.
Qiyao walked slowly, the book pressed against his chest, the jar wrapped securely in cloth, the lilies cradled in his free hand. Their fragrance drifted upward—delicate, almost illusory—yet once noticed, impossible to ignore.
As he moved toward the busier market streets, he began to see them.
On a low windowsill, in a chipped clay cup half-filled with water, floated a small cluster of white bells, green stems bowing like supplicants. Across the lane, a balcony railing bore a string of fresh lilies tied with reed, their pale petals catching the last of the sun like scattered moonlight.
Qiyao slowed his steps.
At the next house, a wooden basin stood beside the doorway, water shimmering inside. Several lilies drifted on its surface, reflections trembling with each passing breeze. Children ran past, tossing pebbles that sent ripples curling around the flowers before they dashed away laughing.
Everywhere the signs appeared: tucked into market baskets beside cabbages, hung above doorways, pressed between half-closed shutters, offered at small household altars beside thin trails of sandalwood smoke.
The flower he carried was not rare in Zhuyin. It lived in every corner, in every breath of the village.
He paused before a vegetable stall. A woman arranged greens with steady hands. A cluster of lilies had been tied to the post beside her, wilting slightly in the day's heat but still fragrant. She noticed his glance and offered a small, tired smile.
"Season of lilies," she said, almost to herself as she adjusted a basket. "No house without them, not this month."
Qiyao inclined his head in quiet acknowledgment but said nothing.
Further on, an old man secured his rice sacks for the night. He tucked a single lily stem behind the rope that bound his cart. When he saw Qiyao watching, he shrugged one shoulder.
"For safety," he muttered. "We all keep them."
The words settled into Qiyao like stones in still water.
By the time he reached the market's edge, the pattern was unmistakable. The lilies were not mere decoration. They were ritual. Protection. Habit. Memory made visible. Each home wore them like a quiet vow.
He tightened his grip on the stems in his hand. The old bookseller's voice echoed once more: A flower of devotion… some believed it could guide lost spirits back to where they belonged.
The sky had deepened to indigo as he left the village road behind. The path toward the shrine wound again through bamboo groves, where evening shadows stretched long and cool.
With each step the lilies' fragrance rose—soft, persistent.
Though he did not hurry, a quiet restlessness stirred inside him.
He thought of the valley that first night: pale bells swaying under moonlight, the distant flute threading through them like breath. He thought of how the villagers tied them above doors, trusting in their power to ward, to protect.
But to Qiyao the flower was never a shield.
It was a thread.
A path.
A way back to the one he still waited for.