Whispers of Mossy Stones: A Rainy Season Residence Diary in Er yuan

Morning arrives, the mist lingers, but the rain arrives first. I push open the wooden window, and the droplets from the eaves fall, striking the green stone slabs, causing a thin mist to rise, like un dried ink stains. The moss in the courtyard glistens, emerald green and almost dripping, climbing up the stone mortar, earthen jars, and ancient wooden walls, as if it were the needlework of the mountain's years, stitching the solitude of the old house into the mystic green of the mossy steps.

The rain clouds are low-hanging, and the white light from the courtyard filters down like semi-transparent rice paper covering all things. Occasionally, a slit in the clouds lets a slanting beam of light pierce through, gilding the polished wooden floor, where the floating dust twirls slowly, like a Zen without a Buddha. Under the eaves, the bamboo curtains sway inward, and the rain is sifted into a fine Zen essence. I pour water to brew tea—the mountain spring water comes from the Zhi Bi Lake, and the tea leaves are wild old tree tea, the broth clear as amber, slightly astringent at first, then sweetens. The aroma of the tea entwines with the moisture of the rain, as if the entire Er yuan is melted into this cup of warm amber.

Breakfast is a pot of corn porridge cooked on the earthen stove by Auntie, accompanied by a small dish of fried mushrooms and preserved bean curd. The fragrance of the mushrooms is the scent of pine needles and earth brought by the rain descending from the mountains, fresh and deep. The oil mushrooms gently burst on the tongue, awakening not the taste buds, but the rain season memories slumbering within the body. In the afternoon, I go to the wetland by the lake, where white egrets stand silently among the reeds, and then suddenly a sweep, cutting through the water's surface, as ripples are quickly covered by the sound of the rain. A small boat slides out of the mist, the bamboo hat on the bow soaked through, looking old yet serene. The stone shore by the lake is mottled with moss, and I sit and watch raindrops paint circles on the lake's surface—one circle rising, then fading, impermanence being the norm. In the surrounding rice fields, the frogs croak in a rising and falling symphony, an unexpected composition of the rainy season.

Returning in the evening, Auntie serves me a bowl of white vinegar stewed chicken, the chicken stuffed with fresh mushrooms and perilla, the soup surface floating with faint yellow oil beads. A spoonful in the mouth, the flavor surges like a tide. After the meal, the corridor's lights are dim and warm, the rain sounds denser. I sit in a wicker chair, gazing out the window at the rain lines, and finally understand what it means to be "solitary and serene"—not tired of the bustle of the world, but to find peace even amidst the flaws, in the sound of the rain, the shadows of the moss, a cup of tea, and a bowl of porridge.

This night, listening to the rain, I seem to understand the deepest secret of Er yuan: the rainy season does not belong to time; the rainy season is time itself. In Er yuan, I let the rain stop at the horizon, and let my heart stay in the rain.