MORNING LIGHT AND FOUND THREADS

The heavy click of the small wall safe closing echoed softly in the sleeping café. Anze lingered for a moment, his fingers still resting on the cool metal door, the image of the matching jade piece – his **安 (Ān)** – vivid in his mind against the worn velvet lining. The coincidence was a stone dropped into the still pond of his carefully ordered life, ripples spreading towards the sleeping woman down the hall. He sighed, a quiet exhalation in the silent room. Some bridges, he thought, were built by forces beyond understanding. He turned, intending to retreat to his own small room off the kitchen, only to freeze.

Xu Linxue stood in the dim archway leading to the back hall, silhouetted by the faint moonlight filtering through the high café windows. She was wrapped in the borrowed woolen shawl Auntie Mei had given her, her expression unreadable in the shadows, but her posture spoke of wakefulness, not sleepwalking. She'd seen.

The silence stretched, thick with unspoken questions. Anze didn't move, his senses instantly alert, the soldier's hypervigilance momentarily overriding the villager's calm. He could almost hear her thoughts – the safe, the matching pendant, the weight of shared abandonment.

"Cannot sleep?" he finally asked, his voice low, breaking the stillness. It wasn't an accusation, merely an observation.

Xu started slightly, as if pulled from her own thoughts. She stepped fully into the café's main room, the wooden floorboards creaking softly under her bare feet. A small, almost sheepish smile touched her lips. "No. Took a long sleep when I was… indisposed." She gestured vaguely towards her bandaged temple. "Body's confused. And…" She hesitated, her gaze flickering towards the safe, then back to his face. "Thirsty. Came out for water."

The tension eased, replaced by the simple, human need she stated. Anze nodded, moving past the unspoken moment towards the ceramic water jug on the counter. He poured a glass, the clear liquid catching the moonlight, and handed it to her. "Mountain spring. Cleanest water you'll find."

"Thank you." She took the glass, her fingers brushing his briefly. Cold. She drank deeply, the water cool and refreshing. As she lowered the glass, her eyes, now adjusted to the gloom, traced the line of his face, lingering on the faded scar that ran like a pale seam from his left eyebrow towards his hairline. It was old, well-healed, but stark against his otherwise composed features in the half-light. The question formed before she could stop it, fueled by the late hour, the shared secret of the jade, and the undeniable aura of capability that clung to him. "That scar… were you in the army?"

Anze stilled. The simple act of wiping the counter with a cloth halted mid-swipe. He didn't look at her immediately, his gaze fixed on some unseen point on the worn wood. The air in the café seemed to grow heavier, charged with the ghosts he usually kept carefully locked away. He finally turned his head, his dark eyes meeting hers. In their depths, she saw a flicker of something complex – weariness, reluctance, the shadow of things witnessed. He let out a slow breath, a sound like wind sighing through distant pines. "Yes," he admitted, the single word carrying more weight than a lengthy explanation. "Special Forces. Captain." He offered no unit, no details, no timeframe. Just the stark, unvarnished truth of it, hanging in the silent air between them.

Xu Linxue held his gaze. She saw the wall go up behind his eyes, the subtle tightening around his mouth. This wasn't a story shared over tea. This was a burden carried. Her photographer's instinct recognized a boundary, a subject raw and private. She respected silence. She understood the need to keep certain doors closed. She didn't probe. Instead, she offered a small, understanding nod, as quiet as his confession. "It suits you," she said softly, surprising herself. "The… capability." She didn't mean the violence. She meant the calm under pressure, the way he'd handled her injury, the village, the hidden road. The strength that felt like bedrock.

A ghost of something – surprise? appreciation? – flickered in Anze's eyes, quickly masked. He gave a curt nod, acknowledging her words without comment. "You should try to rest. Dawn comes early here."

"I will. Goodnight, Anze Li." She placed the empty glass gently on the counter.

"Goodnight, Xu Linxue." He watched her turn and disappear back into the hallway, the borrowed shawl trailing softly. Only when the door to Yan's room clicked shut did he release the breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He looked down at his hands, calloused from both rifle and hoe, then back towards the safe. *Special Forces. Captain.* The words felt alien in the quiet sanctuary of Mòfáng. He shook his head, a single, decisive movement, pushing the ghosts back into their box. He banked the stove embers one last time and retreated to his own small room, the mountain's deep silence settling over the café once more.

* * *

Xu Linxue awoke not to an alarm, but to a low, pervasive hum of activity filtering through the closed door. It was a different kind of quiet than the profound stillness of the deep night – a comfortable murmur of voices, the rhythmic scrape of a chair, the soft clatter of ceramic. Early morning light, pale and mist-diffused, painted stripes across the floor. Little Yan was already up, sitting cross-legged on her bed, a sketchbook balanced on her knees, her pencil moving rapidly across the paper. She glanced up as Xu stirred.

"Morning noises wake you up, huh?" Yan asked, not unkindly, a small smile playing on her lips. She gestured with her pencil towards the door. "Happens every day. Like clockwork. Soon as the mist lightens enough to see your hand in front of your face, half the village is shuffling down the alley. Drawn by the smell, mostly."

Xu pushed herself up on her elbows, wincing slightly at the stiffness in her ankle, though it felt markedly better. "The smell?" she mumbled, still blinking sleep from her eyes. Her stomach chose that moment to growl audibly.

Yan grinned. "Shīfu's magic. Breakfast." She closed her sketchbook and hopped off the bed. "It's not like… regular village breakfasts. Not just congee or steamed buns. He makes *things*. Different things. Sometimes fluffy yellow cakes like clouds, sometimes flatbreads wrapped around spicy things, sometimes eggs cooked in strange ways. Auntie Mei says he learned flavors from 'outside'. Whatever 'outside' means." She shrugged, used to the mystery. "It's always amazing. And everyone comes. Even Granny Wen, if the fog isn't too thick in her bones. Come on! Before Da Chun eats all the crispy potatoes!" Yan was already pulling on her socks.

The promise of Anze's cooking and the infectious energy of the girl spurred Xu into action. She freshened up quickly in the small, clean bathroom down the hall, borrowing a hair tie she found on Yan's desk to pull back her unruly hair. The borrowed clothes – soft linen trousers and a warm woolen tunic – felt surprisingly comfortable. As she opened the door to the café, the full force of the morning scene hit her.

Mòfáng was bustling, but in a quiet, purposeful way. The large communal table was filled. Village Head Chen nursed a large mug of coffee, deep in conversation with Uncle Bo, who was methodically slicing an apple with a small knife. Auntie Mei was showing Granny Wen a new skein of vibrantly dyed wool. Da Chun was indeed demolishing a plate of golden, crispy potato wedges. A few other villagers Xu recognized from the bonfire sat eating, chatting softly. The air was rich with incredible aromas – frying onions, baking bread, something savory and herbaceous. And behind the counter, orchestrating it all with calm efficiency, was Anze. He was flipping something in a large skillet, his movements economical, focused. He looked up as Xu entered, his gaze briefly meeting hers. There was no trace of the previous night's tension, only the quiet competence of the morning routine. He gave a small nod of acknowledgment.

But Xu's attention was immediately snagged by something else. Leaned neatly against the wall near the counter, partially hidden by a stack of firewood but unmistakable, was her backpack. Beside it lay her tripod, and her large, padded camera bag, looking dusty but intact. Her breath caught.

"You found them!" The words burst out of her, louder than she intended, drawing the eyes of several villagers. She limped quickly towards the counter, ignoring the twinge in her ankle, her gaze fixed on her precious gear.

Anze slid a perfectly cooked flatbread onto a waiting plate and wiped his hands on a cloth. He turned, following her gaze. "Yes. Went out at first light with Da Chun. Followed the slide marks up near that stunted pine you mentioned. Found your pack snagged on a root lower down. Camera bag was half-buried nearby. Tripod was a few meters off." He gestured towards the gear. "Check it over. See what's salvageable."

Relief, profound and sweet, washed over Xu. She knelt carefully, ignoring the curious glances, and unzipped the camera bag first with trembling fingers. Inside, nestled in the protective foam, her primary camera body and two lenses looked dusty but undamaged. She pulled out the camera, checking the viewfinder, the buttons. It seemed fine. She ejected the memory card – the precious data card holding days of work, including the images from just before her fall. Intact. Tears of sheer relief pricked her eyes. The backup body in the pack was also okay, though one lens in the side pocket had a cracked filter. Repairable. The tripod legs were scratched but functional. Her spare clothes, energy bars, water purifier – all present. "Everything…" she breathed, looking up at Anze, her voice thick with gratitude. "Everything major is here. A cracked filter, some scratches… but the cameras, the cards… Thank you. Thank you both." She looked towards Da Chun, who gave a shy, potato-filled nod.

"Good," Anze said simply. He gestured towards the now mostly empty communal table. The villagers were finishing up, collecting bowls and cups, drifting out with murmurs of thanks and quiet conversation. Auntie Mei was helping Granny Wen to her feet. Little Yan was stacking plates near the wash basin. "Sit. Have breakfast before it's gone."

Xu blinked, realizing the café was rapidly emptying. The lively hum had subsided as quickly as it had begun. "But… when I woke up, I heard everyone. Now… it's just us?" She looked around at the departing backs, the sudden quiet.

Anze placed a plate in front of her at the counter – a golden flatbread filled with scrambled eggs, sautéed wild mushrooms, and wilted greens, alongside a small pile of those crispy potatoes Yan had mentioned. Steam rose invitingly. "They come, they eat, they go," he said, a hint of something like fondness in his tone as he watched Widow Luo shuffle out the door. "Fields to tend, looms to thread, wood to chop. Dawn waits for no one in Yúnzhī Cūn. They just left." He poured her a cup of steaming black coffee. "So yes. For now, it's just us." He turned back to the stove, starting to clean the large skillet, the rhythmic scrape of the spatula the only sound besides the gentle clink of Little Yan washing dishes.

Xu sat on the stool, the warmth of the plate seeping into her hands. She looked down at the beautiful, simple food, then at her recovered gear leaning against the wall, then at Anze's back as he worked with quiet efficiency. The shared jade, his reluctant confession, the silent understanding of the night before, the communal energy of the morning, and now this peaceful solitude… it was a tapestry of moments, strange and comforting. She picked up her fork, the aroma of mushrooms and fresh eggs filling her senses. Just us. In the Silent Room. High in the mist-shrouded mountains. She took a bite. It was, as Yan had promised, amazing. A different kind of peace, woven not just from silence, but from the quiet rhythm of a found morning.