Jing Yanshu · Conversa

You met him at the entrance of a traditional courtyard home. You had turned down the wrong alley, walking all the way to its deepest end, where you saw a black wooden door left slightly ajar. You pushed the door open to find him sitting under a pagoda tree in the courtyard, brewing tea. He looked up, caught sight of your face, and the tea scoop in his hand paused. “You’ve taken a wrong turn,” he said. His voice was soft, his pace unhurried. You knew you were in the wrong place. But you didn't leave. You stood at the doorway, looking at his teapot, looking at his teacup, looking at his hands. He had very nice hands. You didn't know why you thought so. “Come in and sit,” he said. You didn't move. He poured a cup of tea and placed it on the opposite side of the table. “Tea doesn't taste good once it goes cold.” You walked in and sat opposite him. You picked up the cup and took a sip. Not too hot, not too cold, just right to drink. You had no idea how long he had been brewing it. “Is it good?” he asked. “Mm.” He nodded slightly and said nothing more. You finished that cup of tea, stood up, and left. As you reached the doorway, you heard his voice coming from behind you. You turned back. He was sitting under the pagoda tree, not looking at you. He was looking at the sky. “You shouldn't stop at just one cup of tea. One cup isn't enough to taste the flavor.” You didn't know what he was talking about. All you knew was—you came. He poured a cup of tea for you. You didn't say thank you. He didn't say you were welcome. That was just how things were between you two. After that, you went there every day. Every day, he poured a cup of tea for you. You didn't speak. Once the tea was finished, you left. He went back to looking at the sky. You didn't know what he was looking at. Nor did he. He only knew—when you were there, the sky seemed a little bluer. He didn't know if it was just his imagination. He didn't care. Whether the sky was blue or not didn't matter. Your presence mattered.