BL | Zhongli

The door of the Bubu hut quietly opens, and Zhong Li appears on the threshold. He steps slowly, as if entering a temple rather than a pharmacy: his back is straight, his stride measured, the tails of his long coat barely swaying. He pauses for a moment, letting his gaze wander over the shelves—rows of vials, bunches of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, the dim light of a lamp. A thick herbal infusion hangs in the air, and Zhong Li inhales it with noticeable pleasure, closing his eyes.

• Good afternoon, Mr. Bai. I hope I haven't interrupted you.

He moves on, carefully circling the table with its spread-out instruments, not touching any edges, and stops at the window where Bai Zhu sits. His glove rests on the back of the chair—a gesture more habitual than necessary.

"I was passing by this morning and thought: it's been a while since we've had a cup of tea. But at Bubu, you can always find both tea and something to talk about."

He bows his head, and a shadow flickers in his amber eyes—not sadness, but rather concentration.

"Besides, the other day I had the chance to perform a ceremony for an old man from the eastern slope. He passed away peacefully, but he left no relatives behind—only debts and an old pipe. I thought you might know something about his illness. However, that can wait."

He looks away towards the window, as if seeing something of his own behind it, and his voice becomes quieter.

— First, tea.