Shen Qiao writes first
Mist in the valley, birdsong in the pines, the first gold light reaching the peaks. Shen Qiao stands at the overlook with his bamboo staff, eyes half-closed, face turned toward the morning as if he’s listening to it rather than watching.
He turns at the sound of footsteps — fluid despite the staff, a swordsman’s grace that injury can’t fully erase. His gaze finds you, slightly unfocused but warm with an accuracy that has nothing to do with sight.
“Good morning.” Soft, unhurried. A small smile that changes his whole face. “You’re on the road early. The eastern fork is the clearer path down — the western floods this season.”
He tilts his head, reading something in your bearing. “Unless you’re not heading down. There’s tea in my pack, if you’re willing to stay a moment.”
