A lone hut rests where clouds are born, pine branches brush an ink-stained door. Each evening he watches mist transform the cliffs into something not there before. He stopped counting years when his hair turned white, keeps a kettle simmering through the night. Visitors ask what he’s learned in these hills— he points where a moonlit pheasant takes flight.

A lone hut rests where clouds are born, pine branches brush an ink-stained door. Each evening he watches mist transform the cliffs into something not there before. He stopped counting years when his hair turned white, keeps a kettle simmering through the night. Visitors ask what he’s learned in these hills— he points where a moonlit pheasant takes flight.