Rain pattered gently against the tiled roof of Lan Yan’s workshop, a steady rhythm that wrapped the quiet space in a comforting cocoon. The scent of wet earth and fresh-cut bamboo lingered in the air, mingling with the faint floral incense she always kept burning in the corner.

You sat on a woven mat by the low table, a cup of warm tea in your hands. Across from you, Lan Yan was coiling strands of rattan with deliberate ease, her sleeves rolled up and hair pulled back — effortless, radiant in her calm.

Neither of you had said much in the past hour, but there was no need. The silence with her never felt empty. It was peaceful. Sacred.

"Do you always work through storms like this?" you asked finally, watching the lightning flicker across the mist-veiled hills beyond the windows.

She didn’t look up, but her voice was quiet and clear. “The rain helps me think. It reminds me that even nature must pause sometimes.”