Chapter 27: Cloud Shadows and Orchard Bread
Clouds passed over Qinghe Village like slow thoughts on a lazy afternoon.
It was one of those days where even the breeze refused to rush. The air was heavy with the sweet scent of ripening apples, and the distant call of a cuckoo echoed softly from the trees beyond the east orchard.
Lin Yuan sat under the old apricot tree, a book on his lap and Da Huang snoring quietly beside him. The big dog twitched occasionally, perhaps dreaming of rabbits or the lazy river they'd visited two weeks ago.
Across the courtyard, the oven behind the studio puffed thin ribbons of smoke. The smell of fresh bread and dried herbs curled through the garden path.
Xu Qingyu had started baking recently.
Not for profit.
Not for performance.
Just for the scent.
And for the calmness that came with kneading, rising, and waiting.
---
"Try this," she said an hour later, setting down a small round loaf on a bamboo tray. It was warm, golden, and dusted with just enough flour to make it look like a cloud that had decided to become solid.
"What's in it?" Lin Yuan asked, tearing a piece carefully.
"Thin slices of orchard apple, a touch of rosemary, and a secret."
He took a bite.
Then nodded.
"I can taste the secret," he said.
"What is it?"
He looked at her with a playful smile. "You smiled while kneading."
She raised an eyebrow. "I always do."
"Exactly."
---
That afternoon, several neighbors dropped by.
A young girl named Mianmian brought her grandfather, who had trouble walking. She held the hem of his robe in one hand, and a paper bag of dried tea leaves in the other.
Xu Qingyu gave them each a slice of orchard bread and poured warm lemon water.
They sat by the tea shed, talking about nothing and everything—why clouds follow hills, what frogs think of stars, and which fruits fall first in autumn.
Mianmian's grandfather shared a story from his youth, about a time he got lost in the nearby mountains and was found by a stranger who said nothing but gave him half a steamed bun and pointed the way.
"I think that bun saved my life," he said, voice cracking only once.
Lin Yuan offered him a fresh slice of bread, placing it gently in his hand.
"For the next wanderer," he said.
---
As dusk settled over the village, the light from the oven's window cast soft shadows against the stone wall. Xu Qingyu stepped outside to let the breeze cool her flushed cheeks.
Lin Yuan joined her with two cups of osmanthus tea.
"Do you ever think we're just... caretakers of memory?" she asked.
He sipped quietly. "Not memory. Stillness."
She nodded. "It feels like we hold a space between breaths."
He looked toward the orchard, where fireflies had begun blinking one by one.
"Then let's keep breathing slowly," he said.
---
That night, an old friend arrived at the edge of the estate.
Her name was Liu Yun, once a teacher in the neighboring town, now retired and living somewhere near the lake.
She carried a basket of preserved plums and a folded paper fan that had seen too many summers.
"I don't have an appointment," she said.
Lin Yuan smiled. "This place doesn't take appointments."
She chuckled. "Good. I wouldn't have remembered mine anyway."
---
They sat on the porch long after the moon rose, sharing the preserved plums and sipping rice wine from shallow cups. Liu Yun told stories of her students, her days in the old schoolhouse, and her recent dream of riding a train that never stopped—just circled a mountain slowly forever.
"I woke up rested," she said. "Isn't that strange?"
"Maybe that's what peace feels like," Xu Qingyu replied.
"Maybe Qinghe is that train," Lin Yuan added.
They toasted to that.
And the night didn't need anything more.
---
The next morning, Liu Yun walked to the orchard and sat beneath the same apricot tree, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead. She stayed there until noon, occasionally humming to herself.
Before leaving, she left a note inside the bread tin near the oven:
> This bread tastes like soft endings. Thank you for reminding me how sweetness lingers.
Lin Yuan found it later and added it to the barn's memory wall, pinning it with a plum-colored thumbtack.
Above it, he wrote in pencil:
> Some flavors teach us how to stay even after we've gone.
---
In the days that followed, more visitors began asking about the bread.
But Lin Yuan and Xu Qingyu didn't start selling it.
Instead, they placed one fresh loaf each morning on the stone table near the camphor tree with a sign:
> Take only if your hands are empty, and your heart is open.
Some days the bread stayed all morning.
Other days it was gone before the sun reached the orchard wall.
They never asked who took it.
They just kept baking.
And waiting.
---
One morning, the bread wasn't taken.
It stayed on the table until late afternoon, even as children passed and elders paused nearby.
Xu Qingyu brought it inside, puzzled.
She sliced it open.
Inside was a note—carefully tucked into a small parchment pocket, dry and unburned.
It read:
> I didn't take the bread today. I just needed to see that it was still there.
Underneath was a drawing of a single cloud, shaped like a hand held out gently.
Lin Yuan placed that note in the studio, beside the first bread recipe they'd written together.
A reminder.
That sometimes, presence was enough.
---
On the seventh morning, it rained.
Not heavily.
Just enough to make the earth smell like forgotten songs.
Xu Qingyu stepped outside with the day's loaf wrapped in cotton and placed it on the porch table instead.
A few hours later, a young man came by.
Soaked.
Shivering slightly.
He didn't say a word.
But he sat, unwrapped the bread, and ate quietly.
Lin Yuan poured him warm tea.
Xu Qingyu handed him a towel.
When he finished, he simply bowed once and left, steam rising from his shoulders.
They never asked his name.
And they didn't need to.
---
Later that evening, they wrote on the back of the cotton cloth:
> If it rains again, we'll still be baking.
And they left it hanging on a hook beside the oven.
Just in case.
---
[End of Chapter 27 ]