ROOTS IN THE MIST

The warmth of Mòfáng enveloped Xu like a quilt the moment she stepped inside, the lingering chill from the mountain path dissolving into the comforting scent of pine resin and freshly brewed tea. Her backpack felt suddenly heavy, a tangible reminder of her leap into this unknown life. Before she could even scan the room for a place to set it down, Yan darted forward, her eyes bright with excitement that hadn't dimmed since their arrival. "Your room's still got sawdust ghosts dancing in the corners," Yan announced, grabbing the smaller of Xu's bags with surprising strength. "Granny Wen says spirits hate fresh wood glue. You're bunking with me till it sets!" She didn't wait for agreement, already marching towards a narrow staircase tucked beside the café's counter. Xu followed, offering a grateful, if slightly overwhelmed, nod to the remaining villagers whose quiet murmurs and assessing glances felt more like curiosity than judgment. Village Head Chen gave a single, firm nod, his hands still clasped behind his back, while Auntie Mei simply wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and turned back towards the kitchen, the unspoken acceptance as solid as the stone foundations beneath their feet. Trader Zhang adjusted his glasses, a nervous flicker in his eyes that Xu couldn't quite read, before melting back into the shadows near the stacked sacks of coffee beans.

Yan's room was a small, sloping-ceilinged space tucked under the eaves, surprisingly orderly despite the vibrant chaos reflecting its occupant. Dried wildflower bouquets hung upside down from the beams, filling the air with a faint, sweet hay scent. One wall was plastered with intricate charcoal sketches – mist-shrouded peaks, the gnarled bark of ancient pines, Da Chun's massive hands carefully transplanting seedlings, the fierce concentration on Granny Wen's face as she ground herbs. A worn practice dummy stood sentinel in the corner, its canvas torso covered in faded marker targets. Yan shoved her own pile of neatly folded clothes to one side of a sturdy chest, clearing space for Xu's belongings. "Don't mind the target dummy," she said, patting it affectionately. "Shīfu says I punch like a startled rabbit, but I'm working on it." She pointed to a narrow cot under the single small window, its frame warped with age. "You get the cloud-view bed. Best spot for dawn, if the mist cooperates." Xu set her backpack down, the weight lifting off her shoulders feeling symbolic. The cot was firm, covered in a thick, handwoven blanket in deep indigo blues and mossy greens – Auntie Mei's work, she guessed. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and lanolin. "It's perfect, Yan," Xu said, meaning it. The room vibrated with the girl's energy, a stark contrast to the sterile silence of her Shanghai apartment. It felt lived-in, real. "Much better than fighting sawdust ghosts."

Downstairs, the murmur of villagers had faded, leaving the café peaceful. Anze stood by the polished wooden counter, pouring steaming water from a blackened kettle into two hand-thrown clay mugs. The air filled with the sharp, clean scent of mountain herbs – mint, perhaps, and something earthier, like pine needles. He pushed one mug towards Xu as she descended the stairs. "Granny Wen's 'Mist-Cutter'," he said, his voice a low rumble in the quiet space. "Chases the valley chill out of your bones." Xu wrapped her hands around the warm mug, the heat seeping into her palms. She took a tentative sip. It was bracing, slightly bitter at first, then blooming into a surprising floral sweetness that cut through the lingering fatigue of the journey and the adrenaline crash from the station. It felt like drinking the mountain itself – cool, complex, revitalizing. She sighed, the tension in her shoulders finally unwinding. "It tastes like... sunlight hitting frost," she murmured, taking another deep sip. Anze simply nodded, leaning back against the counter, sipping his own tea. His gaze was watchful, but relaxed, the protective intensity from the valley station banked like the embers in Mòfáng's stove. For a few minutes, they stood in companionable silence, the only sounds the soft hiss of the kettle cooling on the stove and the distant drip of water from the eaves outside. The tea worked its magic, warming her from the inside out, grounding her firmly in this moment, in this place.

Yan practically vibrated with impatience by the door, bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Done yet?" she demanded, eyeing Xu's mug. "Whole village is waiting to meet you properly! Not just the boring grown-up welcome committee downstairs." She grabbed Xu's empty hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "C'mon! Tour time! Shīfu says you gotta know where the ghosts hide and where the best blackberries grow before sundown." Anze gave a barely perceptible nod, a flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "Don't get her lost past the spirit stones, Yan," he cautioned mildly, though his tone held trust. "And be back before the mist thickens." Yan just grinned, already pulling Xu towards the door. "Lost is just finding a new path, Shīfu! You taught me that!"

Stepping back outside felt like entering a different world than the one they'd arrived in. The late afternoon light slanted golden through the mist, gilding the moss-covered tile roofs and the dense green of the surrounding forest. The air, cool and damp, carried the rich scent of wet earth and decaying leaves, underscored by woodsmoke curling from chimneys. Yan skipped ahead, her energy boundless, turning to walk backwards so she could face Xu. "Okay, first rule of Yúnzhī Cūn," she announced, her voice echoing slightly in the quiet lane. "Never whistle after dark. Old Man Feng's ghost hates it – he drowned in the gorge looking for his favourite pipe." She pointed a finger towards a particularly steep section of the cliff face visible across the ravine. "Second rule: Always share the first berry you pick with the Mountain Spirit, or next year they'll be sour as Granny Wen's pickled radishes." She veered off the main path onto a narrower track worn smooth by generations of feet, leading towards the largest structure in the village, the Ancestral Hall. Its dark wood facade, though weathered, stood proudly, intricate carvings of cranes and pine trees just visible beneath the deep eaves, faded but still dignified. "This is the Cítáng," Yan declared, her voice dropping to a respectful whisper, though her eyes still sparkled. "Where the old stories live and the ancestors get fed during festivals. Village Head Chen gets really grumpy if you track mud inside." She gestured towards the heavy wooden doors, closed now. "He says the ancestors prefer clean floors."

They looped around the back of the Hall, following a small, clear stream diverted through a stone channel. The rhythmic *thump-thump-thump* grew louder as they approached a sturdy stone building with a large, moss-covered waterwheel slowly turning beside it. "The Old Mill!" Yan announced, scrambling onto a low stone wall beside the stream. "Used to grind everyone's grain before Trader Zhang started bringing weird city flour. Now Uncle Bo says it mostly grinds his thoughts when he's carving." She pointed to the massive grinding stones inside the open doorway, visible even in the dim interior. "Da Chun tried to fix the wheel last spring and got soaked when the sluice gate broke. Granny Wen laughed for a week!" A chuckle escaped Xu as she pictured the big man drenched.

The path led them next to a covered stone structure near the center of the village. A heavy wooden roof sheltered a deep, stone-lined well opening. A simple wooden bucket hung from a rope coiled beside it. "Communal Well," Yan stated, hopping down from the wall. "Best water in the whole Wùlǐng Mountains! Cold as winter and sweet as cloud cake. Auntie Mei says it's because the mountain cries pure tears into it." She leaned over the edge, peering down into the dark water far below. "Don't look too long, though. Granny Wen says the water nymphs get jealous of pretty eyes." Xu smiled, leaning over cautiously. The cool, mineral scent rising from the depths was incredibly refreshing. She could see why it was the heart of village life.

The rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* was unmistakable even before they rounded the corner of a long, open-sided building. Inside, shafts of dusty sunlight illuminated three large, traditional wooden looms. Auntie Mei stood at one, her strong arms moving with practiced grace as she threw the shuttle back and forth between taut threads. Bundles of undyed wool and hemp hung from the rafters, alongside skeins dyed vibrant indigo, deep madder red, and soft moss green. The air was thick with the smell of raw wool, damp earth, and the sharp tang of dye plants. "Auntie Mei!" Yan called out, bouncing into the shed. "Look who I found! She doesn't snore *too* loud!" Auntie Mei paused, her face breaking into a warm smile that crinkled the corners of her eyes. She wiped her ink-stained hands on her apron. "Xu Linxue! Welcome properly, child. Yan, stop pestering our guest." She walked over, her gaze kind but assessing. "That scarf suits you," she said, reaching out to gently adjust the handwoven blue and green wool around Xu's neck – the one Xu had worn since her first visit. "The blue brings out the city sky still hiding in your eyes." Her touch was firm, grounding. "You'll come learn the threads when your own walls are up, yes? Everyone needs useful hands here." Xu felt a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the afternoon sun. "I'd like that very much, Auntie Mei."

Yan tugged Xu's sleeve. "C'mon, gotta show her the Shānshén Kān before the light goes!" They left the weaver's shed and walked towards the very edge of the village, where the terraced ground met the sheer cliff face. Tucked into a natural crevice in the rock was a small, simple stone shrine, barely waist-high. Offerings lay scattered on its flat surface: a perfect, slightly wrinkled apple, a small cup of clear rice wine, a few intricately woven grass charms shaped like birds. The air here felt stiller, older. Yan's usual exuberance vanished, replaced by a quiet reverence. "The Mountain Spirit's home," she whispered, bowing her head slightly. "He watches the paths, keeps the landslides away... mostly. We leave gifts so he remembers we're friends." She pointed to a tiny wildflower, its purple petals bright against the grey stone, tucked carefully beside the apple. "I put that there yesterday. For safe travels." Xu felt a sudden, profound sense of connection to the ancient rock, the mist, the quiet watchfulness of this place. She bowed her own head instinctively, a silent thank you for the path that led her here, and for the man who had cleared it.

The tour continued, Yan chattering like a mountain stream. They found Da Chun, his massive frame bent over a terraced plot, carefully transplanting seedlings with hands that looked capable of crushing stone but moved with surprising tenderness. Sweat beaded on his sunburnt forehead. "Da Chun grows the food that doesn't come from Trader Zhang's magic bags," Yan announced. Da Chun straightened up, wiping his brow with a muddy forearm, and offered Xu a shy, gap-toothed smile. "Welcome, Miss Xu," he rumbled, his voice surprisingly soft for his size. "These little ones like the rain we had." He gestured to the neat rows of vibrant green shoots. "Good eating soon." He glanced at Yan, a flicker of something unreadable in his gentle eyes – admiration, perhaps, touched with a hint of wistfulness.

They passed Uncle Bo, sitting on a low stool outside his small workshop, a block of fragrant pine in his gnarled hands, a chisel moving with slow, deliberate precision. Wood shavings curled around his feet like golden snow. He didn't look up as they approached, entirely absorbed in the emerging shape – perhaps a bird, perhaps a guardian spirit. Yan put a finger to her lips. "Uncle Bo speaks to the wood," she whispered dramatically. "Shhh." As they passed, the old woodcarver paused, his chisel hovering. Without raising his head, he held out a small, smooth carving – a perfect, miniature apple, its surface warm from his hands. A gift. A welcome. Xu took it, the wood silky under her fingers, and whispered, "Thank you, Uncle Bo." He gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, the ghost of a smile touching his lips, and returned to his work.

Village Head Chen was near the Ancestral Hall again, deep in conversation with Trader Zhang. Zhang looked even more nervous than usual, adjusting his glasses constantly, his city clothes seeming out of place. Chen's expression was stern, pragmatic. He saw Xu and Yan approaching and broke off his conversation, offering Xu a curt but not unfriendly nod. "Settling in, Miss Xu? Yan showing you the important bits?" His gaze flickered towards the hidden path down the mountain, a silent reminder of the fragile balance they maintained. "Keep your city eyes open, but let the mountain fill them first." Trader Zhang mumbled a quick, "Welcome," before ducking his head and hurrying off towards his mules tethered near the mill.

Finally, Yan led Xu to a small, tidy house near the school building. Through the open window, they could see Teacher Lin, her back to them, writing carefully on a large sheet of paper pinned to the wall. Shelves overflowed with books. Yan knocked lightly on the doorframe. "Teacher Lin? Brought the new cloud!" Teacher Lin turned, her face calm, her eyes holding a depth of quiet resilience. A faded floral dress peeked out from under a practical cardigan. "Xu Linxue," she said, her voice gentle but firm. "Welcome home." The simplicity of the words, the quiet certainty in them, struck Xu deeply. "Yan tells me you see the world through a lens," Teacher Lin continued, gesturing towards the small classroom visible behind her. "We have many stories here that need capturing. Perhaps you'll help us write them down?" Xu nodded, a lump forming in her throat. "I'd be honored, Teacher Lin."

As the afternoon light began to soften, turning the mist into a golden haze, Yan led Xu to the western edge of the terrace. She pointed across the yawning chasm of the gorge. "And that," she said, her voice dropping to a hush filled with mystery, "is the Broken Bridge." On the opposite cliff face, a crumbling stone arch leaped outwards, soaring bravely for a dozen meters before ending abruptly in jagged ruins, swallowed by the dense forest growing on the sheer rock. Moss and small ferns clung to its weathered stones. "Nobody remembers what it led to," Yan whispered. "Another village? A secret temple? Granny Wen says the mountain swallowed them when they forgot to listen to the wind." They stood in silence for a long moment, the only sound the distant rush of the river far below and the sigh of the wind through the pines. The broken arch stood as a stark silhouette against the gilded mist, a monument to loss and enduring mystery. Xu felt the weight of time, the stories embedded in the stones, the echo of lives lived and gone. It wasn't sad, she realized. It felt like a promise – that things endure, even in brokenness.

Walking back towards Mòfáng, the village was settling into the rhythms of evening. Smoke curled thicker from chimneys. The scent of woodsmoke and cooking buckwheat noodles mingled with the damp earth smell. Villagers nodded or offered small smiles as they passed – Old Man Feng tending his few chickens, Widow Jiang sweeping her small stone porch. The greetings were simple, quiet acknowledgments: "Evening, Miss Xu." "Settling in?" "Good light for walking." No fanfare, no overwhelming welcomes, just a quiet weaving of her presence into the fabric of their evening. The sense of belonging didn't crash over Xu in a wave; it seeped in, quiet and deep, like the mountain mist soaking into the earth. It was in Yan's confident grip on her hand, in the miniature apple warm in her pocket, in Auntie Mei's assessment of her scarf, in Teacher Lin's quiet "welcome home," in the silent watchfulness of the Mountain Spirit's shrine, and even in Village Head Chen's pragmatic caution. It was the solidity of the stone beneath her boots, the ancient whisper of the pines, the rhythmic clack of the looms, the shared understanding in the glances exchanged over steaming bowls of congee she glimpsed through open doorways. This wasn't just refuge; it was connection. Roots, tentative but tenacious, were finally finding purchase in the rich, mist-laden soil of Yúnzhī Cūn. As they approached the warm glow spilling from Mòfáng's open door, the inviting smell of Auntie Mei's cloud cakes mingling with woodsmoke, Xu knew the alcove being built wasn't just a room. It was the place where her new life would truly begin. She squeezed Yan's hand. "Thank you for the tour, Little Cloud Guide." Yan beamed, her earlier reverence replaced by pure, unadulterated pride. "Told you I wouldn't lose you past the spirit stones! Now come on, I smell dinner!" She pulled Xu towards the light and warmth, towards the heart of her new home.