Misty Shadows of the Tea Garden and Slumber in Tea Fragrance
Dusk draped Yunqi Tea Garden halfway up the mountain like a pale cyan veil. Old Qin placed his last tea-picking knife into a bamboo basket, his fingertips brushing the tea shoots—fresh with the dampness and fragrance of rain. He straightened up, moving as slowly as the flowing clouds in the mountains, his shoulders stretching gently. His sleeves brushed against the tea leaves, stirring a soft rustle that fell onto the pine-needle strewn stone steps, vanishing without a sound.
“It’s time to head back,” he whispered to the tea garden, his voice carried away by the mountain breeze toward the distant bamboo forest. The fresh tea in the basket still glistened with dew, its leaves curled gently, releasing a crisp, lively fragrance. Old Qin lifted the basket onto his shoulder and set off along the winding stone steps toward his mountain cabin.
Knee-high tea bushes lined both sides of the steps, their emerald leaves glowing softly in the dusk. Dewdrops rolled down the leaf veins, tapping the mossy stone steps—tap—before being swallowed by the murmur of the mountain wind. Mist had quietly rolled in, carrying the tea garden’s moisture, cool against his face like soft silk brushing gently. Occasionally, a few mountain sparrows returning to their nests fluttered across the tea bushes, leaving a few clear chirps that quickly faded into the mist. Only the rustle of tea leaves remained, like nature whispering softly.
After walking for about a quarter of an hour, the outline of the mountain cabin emerged faintly through the mist. It was a small wooden house built from logs, with a thatched roof dried in the sun. Several pale green ivy vines crept up the corners, and a stone table with two stone stools sat in front of the door. A set of coarse pottery tea utensils rested on the table, with fine tea dust clinging to the pot. The stone steps leading to the door were worn smooth by time, creaking softly underfoot like an old man’s murmur.
Old Qin pushed open the half-closed wooden door, and a scent blending tea fragrance, dried grass, and pine resin wafted toward him. The interior was simple yet comforting: a wooden bed covered with a coarse cloth sheet, a pottery tea caddy carved with faint tea patterns on the bedside; an old wooden table by the window, with a stack of plain-colored clothes folded neatly on it; and a small fire pit in the corner, still warm from the previous day, with several bundles of dry pine twigs piled beside it.
He set down the bamboo basket, first added a few pieces of dry pine twigs to the fire pit, and lit the tinder. The flame flickered gently, licking the pine twigs with soft crackles, casting a warm glow that bathed the cabin in soft light. Next, he grabbed a handful of freshly picked tea leaves from the basket, put them into a coarse pottery teapot, scooped two ladles of mountain spring water, and set it beside the fire pit to simmer slowly. Steam rose gradually, carrying the crisp fragrance of tea, filling the cabin with a sweet, calming scent.
While waiting for the tea to brew, Old Qin picked up a cloth and gently wiped the tea utensils on the table. The grooves of the pottery cups still held the tea fragrance from the previous day, and he stroked them slowly, his movements as gentle as caressing a precious treasure. Outside the window, the mist grew thicker, blurring the tea garden and distant mountains into a faint ink wash painting. The chirping of insects drifted in from the mist—crickets humming, katydids singing softly, and the murmur of unknown small bugs—weaving a gentle night melody.
The mountain tea was ready, its pale yellowish-green hue glowing softly, its fragrance growing richer. Old Qin lifted the teapot, poured the tea into a coarse pottery cup, blew on it gently, and sipped slowly. The warm tea slid down his throat, fresh and sweet with a lingering aftertaste, washing away the fatigue in his bones. He sat on the wooden chair by the window, holding the cup, his eyes softening as he gazed at the mist outside.
After finishing his tea, Old Qin walked to the stone stool in front of the house and sat down. The mist had spread to the threshold, like a thin curtain separating the cabin from the rest of the world. Stars had begun to peek through the sky, appearing especially gentle through the mist—like scattered diamonds on black velvet. The moon hung on the treetops at the mountain peak, its silver light gilding the mist, turning the tea garden’s bushes into a shimmering green sea under the moonlight.
He lay back, covering himself with a thick wool blanket that carried the scent of sunlight, warm and comforting. Old Qin closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him: the rustle of tea leaves, the gurgle of the mountain stream, the chirp of insects, and the occasional crackle of pine twigs in the fire pit. All sounds softened into an endless lullaby.
He remembered plucking tea shoots at dawn, the cool touch of the buds on his fingertips as sunlight filtered through the mist to warm the tea bushes; sitting on the stone stool to rest at noon, watching bees gather nectar from flowers, the flutter of their wings clearly audible; sorting tea leaves at dusk, the fragrance lingering around his nose, fresh with the vitality of nature. These images drifted slowly in his mind, blurred by mist, calm and serene without a single ripple.
As night deepened, the mist thinned slightly, and the insect chirps grew sparse. The mountain stream’s gurgle became even softer. Old Qin’s breathing slowed and steadied, his chest rising and falling gently. He felt as if he had merged with the tea garden, his body growing light as air, blending with the mist, tea bushes, and mountain stream. He seemed to become a tea bush, taking root in the soil, nourished by dew and listening to the mountain’s heartbeat; or a drop of stream water, flowing slowly down the stone steps, free from worries and cares.
Back inside, Old Qin put out the last embers in the fire pit, leaving only the faint moonlight streaming through the window. He lay on the wooden bed, covered with the soft wool blanket, the fragrance of tea still lingering in his nose. Outside, the mountain stream continued to gurgle, the tea leaves rustled, and the stars twinkled quietly in the sky.
Old Qin’s eyelids grew heavier and heavier, his thoughts fading into a soft blur. He no longer thought of anything, just listening quietly to the sounds of nature, feeling the warmth and tranquility around him. His breathing became deeper and more gentle, and finally, with a soft smile, he drifted off into a sweet slumber. The tea garden remained peaceful, the mist soft, the stars bright—guarding this quiet night and every soul longing for restful sleep.
