Welcome Party

The days in Yúnzhī Cūn flowed with the quiet rhythm of mountain mist, gathering and dispersing, marking time not by clocks but by the deepening chill in the air and the slow blush of autumn touching the highest pines. Meiying's presence became a warm thread woven seamlessly into the village tapestry. Mornings saw her trotting off hand-in-hand with Yan to Teacher Lin's small schoolhouse, returning with crayoned pictures of birds and mountains clutched proudly. Afternoons were spent exploring the safe edges of the terrace with Yan as her boisterous guide, or sitting quietly with Granny Wen, tiny fingers carefully sorting dried herbs under the old woman's murmured instructions. Evenings often found her perched on a stool near the Mòfáng counter, watching Anze with solemn eyes as he brewed tea or polished glasses, her endless stream of questions about clouds, paths, spiders, and cloud cakes met with his low, patient answers. Sleep came easily, wrapped in thick blankets in Yan's room, the profound silence of the mountain night a lullaby.

Sunday arrived again, the mist clinging thick and silver-grey as it had the week before when Zhang Wei vanished. But this Sunday hummed with a different energy, a collective anticipation that crackled like static in the damp air. Word had spread, carried on whispers as efficient as the wind through the pines: tonight, the village would gather. Not for the Ancestral Hall rituals, not for path maintenance, but for a *huānyíng* – a welcome. For Xu Linxue, the quiet woman who framed their world with her camera and whose jade pendant whispered of shared, orphaned roots. And for little Meiying, the sudden, bright spark left in their care, the daughter of the bridge-builder's friend.

Preparations began at dawn. Auntie Mei was a whirlwind in her kitchen, the air thick with the sweet, comforting scent of steaming rice flour and the nutty aroma of toasted sesame. Her strong arms worked dough with practiced ease, shaping not just the usual mist-like clouds, but intricate rabbits (Meiying's favourite), stars (for wishes), and even a few clumsy pheasant shapes inspired by Xu's quest. She hummed an old weaving song, flour dusting her forearms like ephemeral tattoos, while hidden within her flour sacks, the emergency cash lay undisturbed. Da Chun, his massive frame surprisingly deft, hauled sturdy benches and long planks of reclaimed wood from storage sheds near the Old Stone Mill. Under Uncle Bo's silent, watchful eye – the old woodcarver perched nearby, whittling small animal charms from fragrant pine – Da Chun constructed extra tables on the wide terrace of Mòfáng, ensuring they were level on the uneven stone. He tested each joint with a satisfied grunt, his weather-sense assuring him the damp air wouldn't turn to rain tonight. Trader Zhang arrived mid-morning, breathless and beaming, his mule laden not with smuggled tech, but with precious cargo: strings of paper lanterns glowing warm gold and red, bolts of cheap but colourful fabric for impromptu decoration, and, most importantly, several large, sealed clay jars of potent *báijiǔ* and sweet rice wine, procured at considerable risk and expense from the valley below. He fussed over their placement, adjusting lantern strings near the café entrance, his nervous energy a counterpoint to Da Chun's solid calm. "Ambiance, Captain Li! Essential for morale!" he declared, polishing his fogged glasses.

Teacher Lin, her worn canvas bag overflowing with sheets of music and simple percussion instruments – a wooden fish clapper, a small drum – gathered the few village children, including a wide-eyed Meiying and an eager Yan, near the Communal Well. She taught them a simple, clapping welcome song, her calm voice weaving through the children's hesitant repetitions. Meiying watched Teacher Lin's hands intently, her small face serious with concentration as she tried to mimic the rhythm. Granny Wen, seated on a stool brought out by Anze, presided over a different kind of preparation near the Ancestral Hall doorway. Her gnarled hands, guided by centuries of instinct, sorted bundles of dried mugwort, chrysanthemum, and fragrant sandalwood bark. These weren't for medicine tonight, but for the small iron brazier Anze had placed beside her. When lit, the smouldering blend would release a clean, purifying smoke, a traditional blessing for new beginnings and warding off ill intent, its scent weaving with the aromas of food and mountain air. Xu Linxue moved amongst it all, her camera a silent observer. She captured Auntie Mei's flour-dusted intensity as she shaped a star cake, Da Chun's powerful shoulders straining as he lifted a heavy bench, the focused frown on Meiying's face as she practiced the clapping song, the serene concentration on Granny Wen's lined features as she selected herbs. Her presence was unobtrusive, yet her grey eyes missed nothing, framing the bustling preparations with quiet appreciation. Anze himself was a steady anchor. He ensured the stoves in Mòfáng were banked high, ready to keep kettles boiling for tea and broth. He hauled out extra stacks of the thick, hand-thrown clay mugs Auntie Mei used for serving. He checked the path lanterns Trader Zhang had strung, securing loose cords, his soldier's mind subconsciously noting sightlines and potential tripping hazards amidst the festive chaos. His gaze occasionally met Xu's across the terrace, a silent exchange acknowledging the significance of the gathering humming around them.

As twilight deepened, painting the mist in shades of lavender and indigo, the transformation was complete. Paper lanterns strung between the eaves of Mòfáng and the Ancestral Hall cast pools of warm, dancing light, turning the damp stone terrace into a stage. The rough-hewn tables groaned under the weight of Auntie Mei's creations: platters piled high with cloud cakes in whimsical shapes, steaming bowls of buckwheat noodles glistening with chili oil and fragrant herbs, pickled vegetables gleaming like jewels, and a large cauldron of rich bone broth simmering gently over a small brazier. Trader Zhang's colourful fabric draped over benches added splashes of red and blue. The clean, slightly astringent scent of Granny Wen's smouldering herbs mingled tantalizingly with the aromas of food and woodsmoke. The centrepiece was the cluster of clay jars – the promise of shared warmth and loosened tongues. Villagers began to arrive, shedding the day's work like heavy coats. Elderly men and women, wrapped in layers against the evening chill, settled onto benches, their faces softened by the lantern light. Middle-aged farmers, hands still bearing traces of soil, gathered near the food. Little Yan, practically vibrating with excitement, held Meiying's hand firmly, leading her to a spot near the front. Meiying's eyes were huge, taking in the lanterns, the food, the sea of faces all looking towards her and Xu with gentle smiles.

Village Head Chen, his faded PLA cap slightly askew, cleared his throat. The low murmur of conversation faded. "We gather tonight," he began, his voice carrying the weight of the mountain in its gravelly tone, "not just to share food and warmth, though there is plenty." He gestured towards the laden tables. "We gather to weave two new threads into the cloth of Yúnzhī Cūn. Xu Linxue," he nodded towards her, where she stood slightly apart, camera lowered, "you came seeking quiet, perhaps something lost. You found a home. Your eyes see the beauty we sometimes forget to notice. Welcome." A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. Xu dipped her head, a faint flush visible even in the lantern light. "And little Meiying," Chen continued, his stern features softening as he looked at the child clinging to Yan's hand. "You arrived like a sudden spring blossom in our autumn. You remind us of laughter and questions. Welcome." A collective "Huānyíng!" rose from the villagers, warm and resonant. Teacher Lin raised her hand, and the children, led by Yan's clear voice, began the simple clapping song they'd practiced. Meiying, after a moment of shy hesitation, joined in, her small hands clapping enthusiastically if not entirely in rhythm, a radiant smile breaking across her face.

The party unfolded like a gentle mountain stream. Laughter, deeper and more frequent than usual, mingled with the clink of mugs and the murmur of conversation in the thick local dialect. Auntie Mei circulated with trays of cloud cakes, beaming as Meiying shyly pointed to a rabbit-shaped one. "For you, little rabbit," she chuckled, pressing it into the child's hands. Da Chun, usually silent, was coaxed into telling a story about a legendary boar that once threatened the terraces, his slow, deliberate words painting vivid pictures that had the children, and many adults, wide-eyed. Granny Wen sat serenely near her brazier, the fragrant smoke curling around her like a blessing, her clouded eyes seeming to see the joy radiating through the mist. Uncle Bo, perched on a stool away from the main throng, whittled steadily, occasionally holding up a freshly carved bird or rabbit charm, which Yan would then rush to present to Meiying or one of the other children. Trader Zhang, emboldened by a few cups of *báijiǔ*, regaled a small group with exaggerated tales of his perilous journeys up the Soul's Path, earning good-natured eye-rolls from Da Chun and a rare, fleeting smile from Head Chen. Xu moved through the gathering, her camera mostly forgotten now, accepting small cups of wine, listening intently to snippets of conversation, her quiet smile genuine. She was drawn into a discussion about dye plants with Auntie Mei, their heads close together. Meiying, buzzing with sugar and excitement, flitted between Yan, Da Chun's storytelling circle, and Anze, who stood near the Mòfáng entrance, a silent sentinel observing the warmth he'd helped create. She tugged his sleeve, showing him Uncle Bo's latest carving – a tiny, perfect cloud cake. "Look Uncle Li! Like Auntie Mei's! But wood!" He examined it gravely. "Uncle Bo's magic," he confirmed, the ghost of a smile touching his lips as she scampered off to show Yan.

Hours passed. The chill night air bit deeper, but the shared warmth, the lanterns, and the dwindling *báijiǔ* kept it at bay. Anze, ever watchful, noticed the clay jars were nearly empty. The cheerful din was starting to soften into comfortable murmurs as people lingered over the last bites of food. Without a word, he slipped away from the edge of the terrace, through the open door of Mòfáng, disappearing into the deeper shadows within. The café felt cavernously quiet and cool after the vibrant noise outside. He moved towards the small pantry behind the counter where he stored Trader Zhang's precious haul, intending to bring out the last reserve jar.

The soft scrape of the terrace door opening made him pause. He turned. Xu Linxue stood silhouetted in the doorway, the golden lantern light from outside haloing her figure before she stepped fully inside, letting the door swing almost shut behind her. The sounds of the party became muffled, distant.

"Thought you might need an extra hand," she said, her voice soft in the sudden quiet, carrying a warmth that hadn't been there during her first days in the village. She walked towards the counter, the sturdy soles of her boots whispering on the polished wood floor. "Those jars look heavy."

Anze watched her approach, the dim light from the single bulb over the counter catching the silver threads in her handwoven scarf, the faint scar on her left palm visible as she rested her hands lightly on the countertop. "They are," he acknowledged, his own voice low, rougher than usual. "Could manage. But… company's welcome." He didn't move towards the pantry yet.

Xu glanced around the familiar space – the neat rows of mugs, the gleaming espresso machine, the stacks of philosophy books in the library corner. "It's peaceful in here," she murmured. "After all that… wonderful noise." She looked back at him, her grey eyes holding his in the semi-darkness. "You built this. This sanctuary. For them. For…" She paused, a slight hesitation. "For strays like me."

He didn't deny it. He leaned back against the counter, crossing his arms, the movement unconsciously drawing her attention to the faded scar along his eyebrow, the strength in his forearms beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his dark shirt. "Place needed it. Was just… stone." He paused, then added, quieter, "You fit. Better than most strays."

A faint, surprised smile touched her lips. "High praise, Ān Wū." She used the nickname, the one that meant *Safe House*. She took a step closer, drawn towards the pantry door he hadn't yet opened. "Let me help carry it. Least I can do." She reached for the pantry handle just as he moved towards it.

Their hands brushed – his large, calloused, capable; hers smaller, slender but strong, bearing the faint scar. It was a fleeting contact, skin against skin in the cool air of the café. Xu drew her hand back slightly, not startled, but… aware. Anze froze for a fraction of a second, the simple touch sending an unexpected current through his usual reserve. He looked down at her, closer now than they'd ever stood without the counter between them. The muffled sounds of the party felt worlds away.

"Careful," he said, his voice dropping almost to a murmur. The word hung there, layered. Careful with the jar? Or careful with… this?

Her gaze didn't waver. "Always am," she replied, her own voice equally soft, a hint of something wry, almost challenging, beneath the quietness. She held his look, the grey of her eyes deep and unreadable in the dim light, yet utterly present. "With cameras. With… steps." She paused, a breath. "With fragile things."

He understood. The unspoken fragility wasn't just about pottery. It was about secrets held like grenades, pasts shrouded in mist, the tentative trust blooming between two people used to solitude. He didn't move away. The air between them seemed charged, thick with the scent of coffee grounds, old wood, and something else – anticipation, perhaps, or a shared vulnerability rarely acknowledged.

"Some things," Anze found himself saying, the words coming slowly, deliberately, "aren't as fragile as they look." He held her gaze, a silent offer, a quiet strength. He reached past her, his arm brushing lightly against her shoulder this time, a deliberate echo of the earlier touch, and opened the pantry door. "The jar's in the back. Heavy, like I said."

Xu didn't flinch at the contact. Instead, a slow, genuine smile spread across her face, warmer than the lantern light outside, reaching her eyes. "Good," she breathed. She moved aside just enough to let him reach in, her shoulder still lightly touching his arm. "Then let's not be too careful with it."

Outside, pressed close to the slightly fogged window of Mòfáng, Little Yan had been searching for Meiying, who had momentarily vanished near the Ancestral Hall steps. Her gaze snagged on the scene within the café, illuminated by the single bulb. She saw them: Anze leaning close to Xu, his hand near hers on the pantry doorframe, Xu looking up at him with that soft, rare smile, their bodies angled towards each other in the quiet intimacy of the shadowed room. Yan's own search forgotten, a wide, knowing grin split her face. She didn't make a sound. She didn't tap on the glass. She just watched for a heartbeat longer, the image of her stern Shīfu and the quiet photographer framed in the window like one of Xu's own compositions – a picture of unexpected, budding connection. Then, silently, she melted back into the lantern-lit crowd outside, her grin lingering as she went to find Meiying, the secret warmth of what she'd witnessed tucked safely away, a private joy added to the night's celebration. Inside Mòfáng, Anze hefted the heavy clay jar, his fingers brushing Xu's as she steadied it from the other side. Their eyes met again over the cool, smooth surface. No words were needed. The muffled sound of the village singing an old mountain song drifted in as they carried the last of the welcome back out into the light.