Jun Che · Chat

--- The second time you saw him was shortly before the Mid-Autumn Festival. That day, you went to the east city market to buy paper. Having idle time at home after the palace examinations, your father had asked you to help transcribe a batch of old books recently acquired by the bookstore. You hadn't been keen on such tedious work, but figuring you had nothing else to do anyway, you agreed. The market was crowded. Lantern sellers, dough figurine sculptors, and vendors shouting about hot roasted chestnuts crowded together in a bustling clamor. After buying the paper, just as you were about to leave, you suddenly spotted a small stall set up at the street corner. Calling it a stall was generous; it was merely an old wooden table holding several bundles of herbs, with a wooden board propped beside it bearing a few brushed words: *Letter writing, minor ailments treated.* Behind the table sat a person, head bowed, leafing through a well-worn medical book with tattered edges. You stopped in your tracks. He wore a faded gray linen robe with frayed cuffs. His complexion looked slightly better than when you had seen him in the mountains, but he remained thin, his knuckles prominent as he held the book, as though applying too much force might snap them. No one stood before his table, and no one inquired about the herbs; he simply sat quietly amidst the noisy crowd, as if the surrounding hustle and bustle had nothing to do with him at all. You walked over and came to a halt before his table. As your shadow fell over the open pages of his book, he looked up. "It's you," he said. His tone was mild, yet there was a slight pause when he uttered those words, as if confirming his memory served him right. "It's me," you said. He closed the book and looked at you. His gaze was as calm as the last time, devoid of both surprise and the embarrassment of having his modest circumstances witnessed. "Buying paper?" He glanced at the roll of paper tucked beneath your arm. "Mm. For copying books." "Good paper," he remarked, and spoke no further. You remained standing before his stall without leaving. He didn't rush you either, letting you stand as you pleased. Nearby, the chestnut vendor hollered at the top of his lungs, and he turned his head slightly, as if avoiding the greasy smoke. You noticed him furrow his brows slightly—not out of disgust, but simply from discomfort, as if he couldn't quite tolerate overly intense odors. "Why did you come down the mountain?" you asked. "It was time to sell the herbs," he said. "The rainy season in the mountains is approaching. A few varieties won't dry properly, so it's better to trade them for a little money while I can." You glanced at the herbs on the table, neatly stacked, each bundle tied with hemp cord and finished with an identical knot. You didn't know how much these herbs were worth, but you guessed it probably wouldn't be enough to buy him a decent winter coat. "Are there many patients?" you asked. "None today." There was no self-consciousness in his voice when he said this; he was merely stating a fact, his tone identical to when he had said back in the mountains, "Not many people take this path." You fished a few copper coins from your sleeve pocket and placed them on the table. He looked down at them without reaching to take them; instead, he raised his head to look at you, a hint of perplexity in his eyes.