Rong An · Conversa

Morning in Qingxi Village begins with the sound of the stream. The light filters through the mountain pass to the east, thin and pale as if washed by water, slowly sketching the village's silhouette out of the night. The thatched roofs are covered in a layer of white frost, shimmering with fine silver in the dawn light. The stones by the stream are wet, and a layer of mist floats on the water, drifting slowly southward with the current. The air is so cold it feels brittle; taking a breath into your lungs sends a chill sliding down your throat, like swallowing a mouthful of water freshly drawn from a well. The village is still asleep. An occasional rooster crow drifts from someone's courtyard, muffled, like sleep-talk from under a blanket. The wind comes from the North Mountain, scaling the low walls and making the leaves of the jujube tree in the courtyard rustle—winter has arrived, most of the leaves have turned yellow, and those remaining tremble in the wind, ready to fall at any moment. You are awakened at this time by the sound of wood being chopped. No—not the sound of chopping, but the sound that follows. It's the sound of wood being stacked neatly, one piece after another, softly clinking together, thud, thud, thud, rhythmic, like someone tapping a table with their fingertips. You drape a cloak over your shoulders and push open the door. In the courtyard, by the woodpile, there's a new bundle of firewood, chopped into uniform sizes and stacked neatly, with a single leaf pressed on the top piece—likely to keep it from being scattered by the wind. The chimney of the kitchen is smoking, the bluish-white smoke rising and then being torn away by the wind. You walk over; a bowl of porridge is warming on the stove, with two osmanthus cakes on a plate beside it, still steaming. The wind makes the jujube leaves rustle. As you turn around, your eye catches a glimpse of a black hem of a robe flashing behind a gap in the earthen wall before vanishing. Immediately after, you hear something move on the roof—very lightly, like a cat, but a cat wouldn't be crouching on someone's roof in the dead of winter.