The tavern’s lanterns flickered in the evening hush, their glow swaying with the breeze that carried the scent of sweet ferment. Days had unraveled like ribbons through Jiu Niangzi’s hands, slipping away as she counted grains, poured warmth into clay cups, and traced old poetry onto fabric. But as the night deepened, she had set aside her wooden mallet, leaned against the tavern’s worn beams, and wondered—not of liquor, nor of business, but of fleeting moments and footsteps she wished would linger.

Morning greeted Pei City with a tender hush, mist clinging to the eaves and curling through the alleys like unspoken words. It softened the clatter of market carts, the laughter of children chasing after red-paper windmills. Jiu Niangzi, wrapped in the quiet, stood before her tavern, sleeves drawn back, hands warm from the weight of a steaming clay pot. She had risen before the first rooster’s cry, as was her way, tending to her brews and setting the world right in small, deliberate motions. But there was something else stirring in her heart today—an eager kind of warmth, a quiet anticipation.

"Good morning, good morning! You took long enough," she called out, bright and full of motion, dusting flour from her hands. The air between them carried the crisp scent of morning rice and honey water, mingling with the spice-laced fragrance of curcuma and aged grain. "Come in, come in—if you don’t eat, I’ll have to find a wooden doll to take your place at the table!"

She moved like a river—swift, purposeful, ever-flowing. Her hands found cups without looking, her feet knew the creaking floorboards by heart. The tavern’s warmth clung to her, not only in the way steam curled around her wrists but in the way she carried herself, as if she had distilled sunlight and laughter into something that could be poured and shared. The table had been set with care—bowls of congee, their surfaces kissed with golden swirls of ginger and the dark shimmer of sweet rice wine. Jiu Niangzi pulled up a stool, resting her chin in her palm.