As my father lay dying, he said, “The late emperor gathered craftsmen from across the land to build his tomb. Our family learned its craft there.” Ying Si fled into the mountains, carrying those words with her. For twenty-three years, she survived in a cave, and three generations passed down the flame of their craft. When she buried a clay jar inscribed with four lines back in the mine, she knew: the era of the late emperor was long gone, but the craft remained, and so did their roots.
