House Hunting

In the hushed glow of the marketplace, as the sun dipped below the eaves of tiled roofs, Chengyu found himself reluctantly in the company of a woman whose name he gleaned only moments ago. She wore a linen robe that caught the whispers of the evening wind, and her eyes scanned the surroundings with an air of practiced detachment.

"Here," she said, pointing to a narrow building wedged between a bakery and a shop selling dried herbs. "This one has been vacant for some time."

Chengyu nodded, yet his gaze lingered on Hua. The young man's face was alight with the glimmer of possibility, an expression Chengyu had seen before whenever they discussed the properties of rare medicinal plants or the delicate art of blending tinctures. Now, it seemed misplaced amid the mundane task of finding a suitable residence.

"Let's see inside," Hua urged, and the landlady led them through a low door into the dim confines of the potential home.

"Ample space for one," the landlady murmured, sweeping her arm across the modest room. A single window offered a view of the street, where lanterns were beginning to pierce the twilight.

"Is there a garden?" Hua asked, hopeful.

"Only a small patch of earth at the back," she replied, her voice devoid of any sentiment.

Chengyu trailed behind, watching as Hua inspected every corner, every shadow the sparse room offered. Each place they visited felt like a repetition of the last, and Chengyu's patience, already frayed, threatened to snap.

"Is there nothing closer to the market? Somewhere... livelier?" Hua inquired after they emerged onto the street once more.

"Perhaps," the landlady conceded with a sigh. "But the price—"

"Never mind that," Hua said with a dismissive wave, and Chengyu bit back a groan. He knew, with an ache in his chest, where this was leading.

"Over here then," the landlady relented, guiding them down a series of alleys that twisted like the roots of an ancient tree.

And there it was—the dwelling that sparked a light in Hua's eyes, a simple two-story structure with a balcony overlooking a bustling side street. But it wasn't the house itself that caused Chengyu's stomach to tighten; it was its proximity to Xiuqin's abode. Close enough for conversations shouted from window to window, close enough for the scent of her cooking to waft through the air.

"Perfect," Hua breathed out, his smile wide, his eyes not seeing the distress clawing up Chengyu's throat.

"Isn't it just too convenient?" the landlady quipped, oblivious to the tension.

"Too convenient indeed," Chengyu echoed in his mind, his thoughts souring like milk left out in the summer heat. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement now seemed perilously close to permanence.

"Thank you," Hua said to the landlady, who simply nodded in acknowledgement of a job nearing completion.

Chengyu couldn't help but wish he'd embarked on this task alone, free from the unpredictable whims of a would-be apothecary whose desires now entwined too closely with his own sphere. Yet here he was, bound by a sense of duty, a keeper of promises made in quieter times.

"Let's discuss the terms," the landlady said, pulling out a roll of parchment and ink. Her businesslike demeanor provided no comfort to Chengyu, whose heart longed for solitude and whose pocket dreaded the forthcoming expense.

As the night crept over the city, wrapping it in a cloak of stars, Chengyu stood aside, watching Hua's dream take shape in the form of walls and wooden beams. And within him, a quiet resolve hardened; he would see this through, despite the cost to his peace.

***

The waning crescent moon hung low in the sky, casting its silvery glow upon the cobblestone paths that meandered through the city. It was a sight that often inspired Chengyu to ponder the transient nature of life, but tonight, his thoughts were shackled to more immediate concerns.

"Chengyu, what's the matter?" Hua's voice pulled him back from his reverie, the concern palpable even in the soft light.

"Ah, it's nothing," Chengyu muttered. His fingers, calloused from years of handling apothecary tools and ancient scrolls, fumbled within the confines of his silk pouch for coins he knew were not there. He had miscalculated, lost in the fervor of fulfilling his responsibility to Hua.

"Surely we can negotiate the price?" Hua suggested, hope threading through his words like a delicate vine clinging to a sturdy trellis.

"Even in negotiation, the gap between expectation and reality can sometimes be as vast as the Jade Sea," Chengyu replied, his voice laced with resignation. The landlady regarded them with an impatient tilt of her head, her hand outstretched and unwavering.

"Perhaps... perhaps I should reconsider the other place," Hua said quietly, his shoulders drooping under the weight of practicality. "The one nearer to the palace."

"Living near the palace has its advantages," Chengyu offered, though the suggestion tasted bitter on his tongue. To see Hua settle for less because of his own financial oversight twisted his insides into a tight knot. "Or," Chengyu continued, casting a sidelong glance at Chengyu, "You could take up the offer to share space at Xiuqin's."

"Even I can see that Xiuqin's home is... becoming quite crowded, to say the least," Hua confessed, the image of the cramped quarters, filled with laughter and the scent of simmering herbs, flashing before his eyes. "There may not be enough room for both dreams and bodies."

A heavy silence settled between them, punctuated only by the distant hoot of a night owl. Chengyu's gaze drifted skyward, following the path of a lone cloud as it skirted past the moon. "Then I suppose there's only one option left," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Which is?"

"I will go to the palace." Chengyu's declaration fell like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the air. "I will ask for patronage from the Lord Hongli."

"Are you certain?" Hua questioned, though he admired the steel in Chengyu's resolve. There was something noble in the act of swallowing one's pride, of stepping into the unknown with nothing but hope as a guide.

"Sometimes, the remedy we seek lies within the bitterness we must swallow," he said, a faint smile touching his lips.

"Indeed," Hua agreed, feeling the weight of the moment settle upon his chest. "And I will support you in any way I can, as your friend and as one who believes in the healing arts."

"Thank you, Chengyu," Hua said, extending a hand. "For everything."

Their palms met, the exchange brief yet laden with unspoken vows. As they parted ways for the evening, Hua watched Chengyu's retreating figure—his silhouette a solitary shadow against the moonlit streets—and felt the quiet stirrings of destiny weaving its intricate lines and paths around them both.