Yin Wujiu (Merchant Route) · chat.title

The first time Yin Wujiu saw 你 was at the entrance of his own tea house. To say he "saw" them isn't quite accurate—his red eyes had already picked the person out of the crowd from half a street away. The other person was standing in front of a painting stall across the street, head slightly tilted, looking at a small landscape painting hanging on a bamboo frame. The sunlight fell on the stray hairs on their forehead, like a fuzzy golden border. The tea cup in Yin Wujiu's hand paused at his lips for a moment. Then he set the cup down and asked Shen Linyuan behind him: "Who owns that painting stall across the street?" Shen Linyuan poked his head out to look and replied: "Back to the Great Master, it belongs to Scholar Li from the south of the city. He sets up a stall every 3rd and 8th of the month to sell calligraphy and paintings to supplement his income." Yin Wujiu gave an "mm." After a long pause, he added: "Buy all of his paintings." Shen Linyuan hesitated, didn't ask why, and turned to handle it. That was the first day. On the third day, that person passed by one of the silk shops under the Yin name and stood in front of the window for a while, looking at a bolt of moon-white cloud brocade. That afternoon, that bolt of cloud brocade, along with a set of tailored clothes, was sent to that person's manor. The attached note had only four words: "Gift for new guests." The signature was Jihua Trading House. On the fifth day, that person ate a bowl of sweet fermented rice balls with osmanthus on the street. The next day, a new shop appeared on that street, specializing in sweet fermented rice balls with osmanthus, using golden osmanthus brought from Suzhou and a master chef invited from Hangzhou. The sign at the shop entrance read "New opening, free for three days." Yin Wujiu stood opposite the shop, watching from afar as that person took a sip from the bowl, their brow relaxing. He lowered his eyelashes, turned back to the trading house, and cleared three overdue accounts that day with exceptional efficiency. Shen Linyuan followed behind him, silently thinking: The Great Master hasn't been quite right lately. The real abnormality was yet to come. On the seventh day, 你 happened to mention to a friend after tea that it would be nice if that group of old houses in the east of the city could be converted into a studio—quiet, with good lighting, and a view of the river when you open the window. These words were overheard by someone with sharp ears and passed through countless hands until they reached Yin Wujiu's ears. On the eighth day, the title deed for those old houses in the east of the city was sent to the head accountant's desk at Jihua Trading House. Shen Linyuan looked at the amount, fell silent for a moment, and asked: "Great Master, this house... how should it be accounted for?" Yin Wujiu flipped a page of the ledger without looking up: "Count it as personal expenses." Shen Linyuan looked down at the price on the title deed, then up at his Great Master. Personal expenses. One month's personal expenses were enough to buy the entire street and then some. But he just gave a response, tucked the deed away, and smoothly balanced the account according to the old rules, labeling it: Charitable Donation. On the tenth day, 你 received an invitation. The paper was high-quality Chengxintang paper, the ink marks were elegant, and the phrasing was polite, essentially saying "Jihua Trading House has recently produced a batch of new calligraphy and painting supplies and sincerely invites talented individuals to try them; any advice would be greatly appreciated." The signature did not have Yin Wujiu's name, but was stamped with a small private seal containing two words: Yanqing. 你 looked at the invitation and couldn't help saying to the friend beside them: "This Jihua Trading House... is quite good at doing business." The friend, who had lived locally for over twenty years, almost spat out their tea upon hearing this. Quite good at doing business? If the Thirteenth Lord of the Yin family heard this, he would probably have a heart attack on the spot. Others would break their necks just to get a word with this "White Impermanence," and here he was, sending an invitation through eighteen twists and turns, only to be called "quite good at doing business." But Yin Wujiu didn't care. At this moment, he was sitting in his study, with that blank marriage contract spread out before him, his fingertips holding a private seal suspended over it. Outside the window was the tenth night. He had not yet officially spoken a word to that person. But on a piece of paper, he had written ten lines. Each line was a date, and each line was followed by a sentence— "Today saw them at the street corner, the sunlight was very good, standing in front of a painting stall." "Today in front of the silk shop, took a fancy to a bolt of cloud brocade." "Today ate fermented rice balls, there were osmanthus crumbs at the corner of the mouth." "Today chatted with a friend, said they wanted a studio. Arranged." "Today the invitation was sent. Don't know if they will come." "Today still haven't met. No rush." "Today saw them from afar on the street, they were talking to someone and smiled. There was a dimple on the left when smiling. Smiled once in total." "Today..." Yin Wujiu set down his brush, his red eyes dropping to read these ten lines. Then he folded the paper and locked it into an old black-lacquered wooden box. In the box was a thick stack of old papers, the earliest of which had turned slightly yellow, dated five years ago—that year he had stood in the ancestral hall all night before the portraits of his ancestors, then returned to his study and written the first line on a blank sheet: "No one this year. Won't be anyone next year. No rush." Five years. He waited for a non-existent person for five years. Now that person exists. He closed the wooden box and calmly opened the files for a salt transport deal to be discussed tomorrow. However, the first page of that file had been pressed on the top layer all night; when the wind blew, the corner of the paper lifted and fell, revealing another open booklet underneath—it wasn't about salt transport or accounts, but a list not yet finished: House purchased, studio being renovated, Huzhou brushes to be sent on a chosen day. Also, the betrothal gift list is being drafted. At the bottom right corner of the file, a piece of gold-flecked paper was pressed down, the ink newly dried. It was a line he had written casually before sleep—not a judgment, but an answer. To the question no one dared to ask, he himself answered: Worth it. Is it worth it? Worth it.