The note arrived the way most things did in Water Moon Town: quietly, and without ceremony.
Folded in three, tucked beneath a familiar river stone, it rested on the low wall between their courtyards like it had always been meant to be there.
Shen Xifan found it just after morning tea. The kettle had barely cooled. The plum tree outside was dripping mist from its bare branches, and the moss between the stones was still slick underfoot. She stepped out to sweep the courtyard, not out of habit, but because it gave her hands something to do and there it was.
She didn't pick it up right away.
She stared at the paper for a full minute, heart ticking a little too loudly. Then slowly, she crouched, fingers brushing the cool edge of the folded page.
Ink on soft ivory paper.
No embellishments.
No greeting.
Just:
Would you like to see how it's done?
— X.S.
That was all.
No date. No time. No demand.
Just an invitation.
Like everything he'd done so far - quiet, considered, and entirely optional.
She read the note again.
And then once more.
Her chest felt strange. Tense and light at the same time. Like something had shifted, almost invisibly, beneath her ribs.
She didn't rush over.
Instead, she made a second cup of tea. Jasmine. Let the leaves steep too long.
She wandered the courtyard in circles, her fingers trailing along the low stone planters. She watched a moth beat its wings against the inside of the window, watched the light shift across the floor. Anything to not think too hard about the note now tucked in her sleeve.
But the silence between the walls had changed.
It wasn't empty anymore.
It was waiting.
At half past two, she stepped out of her gate and crossed into the next courtyard.
The Xu Jade Studio was exactly how she imagined it and nothing like it at all.
She had passed by the carved sign a dozen times now. Red lacquer. Gold lettering, worn soft at the edges. The plum tree in the front yard always dropped petals across the step, and the windows were too high to peek through.
She knocked once.
No answer.
But the door was already slightly ajar.
So she pushed it open.
Inside: quiet.
Not the hush of awkwardness, or the forced calm of luxury spas she used to be paid to visit.
This was a silence made of rhythm.
It smelled of tea and stone, of wood polish and something faintly floral — osmanthus, maybe.
The studio had high beams and tall windows. Light filtered in at a slant, catching on shelves lined with jade — some raw, some shaped, some nearly glowing from within. Tools rested on linen cloths. Everything was meticulously placed, but not sterile. It felt… lived in.
And at the far end, bathed in light from the open window, stood Xu Songzhuo.
He didn't look up right away.
He was bent over a bench, sleeves rolled to his elbows, hands dusted in powder. The carving in front of him caught the light — familiar lines, subtle curves. She recognized it almost instantly.
Her sketch.
Or something becoming it.
Her breath caught.
Then he looked up.
"You came," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"You came," he said.
Not as a question. Not even with surprise.
Just a quiet acknowledgment.
As if he'd already made peace with the possibility that she might say no—and had simply left space in his world in case she didn't.
"I did," Shen Xifan answered.
Her voice sounded softer in this room, like it didn't want to disturb anything. The studio wasn't fragile, but it had a kind of reverence to it like a place where every object had been placed by thought, not by habit.
He nodded once, then stepped aside from his bench.
She followed his line of sight.
Laid out before him, on a low linen-covered table, was a carved piece of jade; not finished, not rough. Mid-creation. The shape was unmistakable.
It was her sketch.
But changed.
The shoulder curve was deeper. The hand is more expressive. There were no eyes, no face but she could feel the way he had seen himself through her drawing, and somehow translated it back through his own hands.
"You're carving it," she said.
"I'm trying."
Her throat tightened. "Why?"
He didn't look at her right away. Instead, he ran a cloth gently over the curve of the jade, brushing off the thin dust with care.
"Because I wanted to understand what you saw," he said finally.
Their eyes met.
And for a moment, she felt it again—that strange pull between them. Not attraction in the way people meant when they said it in interviews or screenplays. This was quieter. Older. Like something long dormant, only now remembering how to stretch its limbs.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached for another piece of jade; a smaller one, rough, chalky at the corners and placed it on a fresh cloth.
Then, without ceremony, he held out a chisel.
She stared at it.
"I've never done this," she said.
"I know."
He didn't add anything else. No reassurance. No "you'll be fine." No false encouragement.
Just patience.
And trust.
She reached for the chisel.
Their fingers almost touched.
He drew his hand back quickly but not rudely. Just… carefully. Like the act of not touching her had required just as much thought as the act might have.
Her pulse stuttered.
He moved to stand beside her, folding his arms behind his back.
"Your wrist is too tense," he said gently. "Don't grip. Just glide."
She adjusted. Tried again. The jade scraped in a jarring line, rough and uneven.
He didn't correct her.
But she could feel his attention. Not judgmental. Not hovering.
Present.
Watching.
Not like a teacher. Like someone listening.
She tried again.
Tap.
The stone responded differently this time; quieter.
Her brows lifted.
He spoke again, quieter still. "It's not about force. It's about asking where it wants to change."
She didn't answer. But she tried again.
Tap. Pause. Tap-tap.
It wasn't art. Not yet. But it wasn't noise either.
She didn't look up, but she felt it, that he was watching her more intently now.
She wanted to ask him how many others he'd taught this to.
She wanted to ask if he carved for people he loved.
But instead, she just focused on the stone.
And let the silence shape them both.
When she finally stopped, her hands ached.
Not sharply. Just enough to remind her they'd done something new.
She set the chisel down and leaned back, flexing her fingers. Fine jade dust clung to her sleeves and cuffs.
He stepped forward silently, picked up the small block she'd worked on.
Held it in both hands as if it were worth something.
She braced herself for him to tell her it was a start. Or to give some mild critique.
But he didn't.
Instead, he tilted it once in the light, and then said, "You listened."
Her breath caught. "What?"
"You listened to it," he said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
A pause.
"Most people just try to control it. You didn't."
She looked down at her hands, suddenly unsure of what to do with them.
"I don't know what I'm doing," she admitted.
"But you want to," he said.
That landed harder than she expected.
She nodded, then looked at him again, truly looked.
His features weren't as sharp up close as they appeared from afar. His jaw was strong, yes, but softened by a slight weariness. His brows held tension he didn't seem aware of. But his eyes,dark, clear, held a steadiness that didn't ask for attention. It simply was.
"Have you taught many people?" she asked quietly.
He hesitated.
Then: "None."
Her eyebrows lifted.
"I mean… not like this," he said.
She waited.
"I've demonstrated. At exhibitions. Ceremonial stuff. For press. But not one-on-one. Not… honestly."
A beat.
"And certainly not someone who draws people the way you do."
She swallowed.
"I didn't mean to," she said. "Draw you, I mean."
"But you did."
She nodded.
A long moment passed between them.
Then she said, "I've never done this before."
"The carving?"
"No," she said. "Letting someone… teach me something. Like this."
Their eyes locked.
And somewhere between the unsaid and the unspoken, they both understood—
They were both starting something new.
And for both of them, it was the first time.
As she gathered her things, the sun dipped below the studio windows. Long shadows spilled across the floor. The air grew cooler, tinged with evening.
At the door, she paused.
He hadn't followed her, but she could feel him behind her, still at the bench, still cleaning the tools slowly.
She turned slightly. "Thank you."
He looked up. Didn't smile.
But something behind his expression warmed.
Then: "Tomorrow?"
She blinked. "Tomorrow?"
"If you'd like to continue."
She hesitated just a moment longer than necessary.
"…Yes."