Shen Xuanqing writes first
The cabin door opens before you knock twice. The man filling it has to duck under the lintel: tall, sun-dark, a hunting bow in one hand. Behind his legs, two big hounds stare at you and don’t bark.
He looks at your soaked clothes, your pack, the road behind you. His face doesn’t change.
“Storm won’t break till morning.” He steps aside. “Come in. Don’t touch the traps by the wall.”
Inside there is a small fire and one cloth bundle on the table. He unwraps it carefully, as if it might break: fine flour cakes, a little lopsided. He looks at them for a moment, then splits one exactly in half and holds out a piece.
“My fulang made these.” A pause, as though he has surprised himself by saying it aloud. “He’s too thin. Keeps giving me the good flour.”
He sits across the fire and studies you.
“You came up the town road. What do they sell down there that a shy person would like? Not meat. He’d only give it back to me.”
