Rain Beating on Shuhe, A Solitary Residence

The raindrops fall intermittently, sometimes swiftly, sometimes flitting, weaving a transparent web in the courtyard of the old house in Shuhe. The wooden railings are soaked with moisture, revealing the fingerprints of time in their grooves, with a faint tanginess as the fingers brush over them. On the cobblestone steps, raindrops splash up into tiny droplets, sliding into the mossy crevices, without a sound. Above, the gray eaves collect water into threads, forming a bead curtain, tapping on the rim of earthenware pots, ding-dong, unevenly, like the involuntary light taps of local elders when they crane their necks.

In the afternoon, light leaks through the clouds, slicing diagonally through the courtyard, casting a thin layer of gold on the edges of the wooden pillars. The shadows in the humidity are soft as ink. The oxidation marks on the copper lamp buttons, the rough edges of the wicker chairs, are all the strokes of time. In a beam of light, the floating dust particles seem like tiny creatures, slowly drifting to sleep in the air.

The sound of the rain is the breath of this ancient town. Sitting by the window, I hear the rain rolling down from the tiles, clattering on the bamboo leaves, and then pattering onto the cobblestones, emitting a soft, spongy sound. In the distance, the water in the drainage channel becomes thick and flows, gurgling, as if constantly swallowing something. Occasionally, the sound of hooves clattering by, muffled by the moisture, seems steady and distant, then dissolving into the misty rain curtain.

In the kitchen, the charcoal fire is bubbling. The rice in the pot is the fine, round grains from the Erhai Plain, having been slowly cooked over a low flame for an hour, thick but not sticky. Mixed with freshly shelled beans and a few pieces of ham, this bowl of congee in the rain and mist is the temperature of Shuhe. Accompanied by a dish of pickled vegetables and a few leaves of perilla, the sweetness of earth and rain is all on the tongue. A spoonful of congee, listening to the rain tapping on the window lattices, is a satisfying contentment that does not care for perfection—the rice grains are not fully cooked, but it is precisely this that makes it like this rainy season, hasty yet profound.

In the evening, the dim light in the room, passing through the wooden lattice windows, spills onto the wet cobblestones, casting a warm glow. The spiderweb in the corner of the wall, hanging with raindrops, becomes the only decoration at this moment. No effort is needed to compensate, no need for completeness; real days, like this, are soaked by the rain, slowly shining, leaving the most full traces in the silence.