Mist Over the Lake and Starry Slumber
Dusk draped Crescent Moon Lake in the valley like a thin veil. Old Chen folded his last fishing net into the wooden hut by the shore, his fingertips brushing the dampness of the net ropes—cool with the lake’s gentle moisture. He straightened up, moving as slowly as the reeds floating on the water, his shoulders stretching softly. The faint creak of his joints was carried away by the wind, 消散在 the reeds along the lake.
“It’s time to rest,” he whispered to the lake, his voice so light it didn’t stir a single ripple. Behind him, the fishing net lay drying on a wooden frame, water droplets rolling down the threads to tap the bluestone slab—tap, tap—before being swallowed by the rustle of reeds. Old Chen picked up his bamboo hat leaning by the door, placed it on his head, and set off along the leaf-strewn path toward his lakeside cabin.
Reeds as tall as his waist lined both sides of the path, their grayish-white plumes swaying gently in the evening breeze like countless soft feathers brushing the air. Mist had quietly rolled in, carrying the lake’s moisture, cool against the skin—not cold, just refreshing. Occasionally, a few fish leaped from the water with a splash, their droplets falling on the reed leaves to form tiny beads that slid down into the soil, vanishing without a sound.
After walking for about ten minutes, the outline of the lakeside cabin emerged faintly through the mist. It was a small house with blue bricks and dark tiles, green moss creeping up the corners. Two bamboo recliners sat in front of the door, dotted with a few golden ginkgo leaves. The wooden steps leading to the door were worn smooth by time, creaking softly underfoot like an old man’s murmur.
Old Chen pushed open the half-closed wooden door, and a scent blending dried grass, medicinal herbs, and lake water wafted toward him. The interior was simple yet comforting: a wooden bed covered with a blue calico sheet, a pottery vase with a few dried reeds on the bedside; an old wooden table by the window, with a stack of coarse cloth clothes folded neatly on it; and a shiny black pottery pot on the small stove in the corner.
He hung his bamboo hat behind the door, then added a few pieces of dry pine twigs to the stove 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 took a handful of dried honeysuckle from the bamboo basket in the corner, put it into the pottery pot, scooped two ladles of lake water, and set it on the stove to simmer slowly. Steam rose gradually, carrying the crisp fragrance of honeysuckle, filling the cabin with a soothing, calming scent.
While waiting for the tea to brew, Old Chen picked up a cloth and gently wiped the earthen bowls on the table. Traces of lake water still lingered in the bowls’ grooves, and he stroked them slowly, his movements as gentle as caressing a sleeping child. Outside the window, the mist grew thicker, blurring the lake and reeds 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 honeysuckle tea was ready, its amber hue glowing softly, its fragrance growing richer. Old Chen lifted the pottery pot, poured the tea into a coarse earthen bowl, blew on it gently, and sipped slowly. The warm tea slid down his throat, bitter yet sweet, washing away the fatigue in his bones. He sat on the bamboo chair by the window, holding the bowl, his eyes softening as he gazed at the mist outside.
After finishing his tea, Old Chen walked to the recliner in front of the house and sat down. The mist had spread to the steps, 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 over the valley, its silver light gilding the mist, turning the lake’s surface into a shimmering sheet of broken silver.
He lay back, covering himself with a thick linen blanket that carried the scent of sunlight, warm and comforting. Old Chen closed his eyes, listening to the sounds around him: the rustle of reeds, the gentle lapping of lake water against the shore, the chirp of insects, and the occasional crackle of pine twigs in the stove. All sounds softened into an endless lullaby.
He remembered rowing his boat on the lake at dawn, the water so clear he could see pebbles and darting fish at the bottom; sitting in the recliner at noon, soaking up the sun as it filtered through the reeds, wrapping him in warmth; hauling in the net at dusk, the small fish jumping in the mesh, fresh with the lake’s vitality. 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 lake’s lapping became even softer. Old Chen’s breathing slowed and steadied, his chest rising and falling gently. He felt as if he had merged with the lakeside, his body growing light as air, blending with the mist, reeds, and lake. He seemed to become a reed, swaying gently in the breeze, nourished by the lake’s water; or a drop of lake water, rippling softly on the surface, free from worries and cares.
Back inside, Old Chen put out the last embers in the stove, leaving only the faint moonlight streaming through the window. He lay on the wooden bed, covered with the soft linen blanket, the fragrance of honeysuckle still lingering in his nose. Outside, the lake continued to lap the shore, the reeds rustled, and the stars twinkled quietly in the sky.
Old Chen’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 lakeside remained peaceful, the mist soft, the stars bright—guarding this quiet night and every soul longing for restful sleep.
