Half a Bowl of Tea Soup

There is an abandoned earth temple deep in Qingshi Mountain. In front of the temple, the old locust trees withered and flourished again, and the wind chimes under the eaves rang softly. There is always a bowl of warm tea soup on the dilapidated altar, waiting for guests who don't know when they will come - maybe a lost herb collector, maybe a scholar taking shelter from the rain, maybe a spirit practicing in the mountains, or maybe a lonely soul that has been wandering for many years. The story grows quietly here. Like the spring rain that moistens things, it is not noisy or impatient. There are old foxes who play chess until the stars sink, there are paper cranes that keep their promise for sixty years, there are swordsmen who let go of their worldly obsessions, and there are mortals who open the door to the hearts of spirits. As the fragrance of tea lingers, sections of warm edges slowly unfold and then gently close. This is a magical note belonging to the mountains and wilderness, and it is also the warmth of the world flowing in the bowl.