Since we are all reborn, let’s arrest the senior!

Fine snow leaked through the cracks in the glazed window. Lin Zhixia squatted in front of the stove, adding firewood, her nose glowing red from the firelight. Pine branches crackled in the firebox, and sparks landed on her eyelashes like scattered gold dust.

When Lu Mingze came in carrying freshly chopped firewood, his work pants still had mud and grime from repairing window cracks stuck to the knees, and his shoes left faint footprints on the ground.

"Stay away from the fire." His voice, tinged with the scent of pine, fell as the tip of his boot lightly touched her heel. "Your knees are practically touching the stove."

She shifted to the side, but accidentally knocked the fire tongs askew. Lu Mingze chuckled softly and squatted down beside her, his shoulder level with hers. His fingers were long and slender, the tips still stained with cobalt blue powder. As he adjusted the angle of the fire tongs for her, the gauze on his wrist brushed against the back of her hand—a wound from the grinding bowl he had inflicted that morning while adjusting the peacock blue glaze for her.

“The maltose is on the offering table.” He used his sleeve to wipe the sparks from her eyelashes. “Jiang Yun said that sweet things should be offered for the Kitchen God, so that the Kitchen God won’t speak ill of her in heaven.”

Lin Zhixia looked up at him and noticed faint dark circles under his eyes, like the ink-like patterns that occasionally appear during kiln transformation. Last night, when she got up in the middle of the night, she saw him sitting alone in front of the kiln, the moonlight casting a long shadow of him, clutching a report in his hand, the word "surgery" gleaming coldly in the night.

"Would you like to try some first?" She tiptoed to take the oil paper package from the offering table. The maltose glowed amber in the firelight, with crescent-shaped notches gnawed along the edges. "Jiang Yun always says I'm clumsy and can't even wrap the candy neatly."

Lu Mingze raised an eyebrow and took the candy, his fingertips touching the thin calluses on her palm—marks left from years of kneading clay. The candy made a crisp sound as it was bitten open, and he suddenly leaned close to her ear, his voice mingled with the sweet frosting: "You really are clumsy. Last time you carved a bamboo-shaped cup, you carved the character 'Ming' as 'Yue'."

Her ears burned, and she hurriedly took a half step back, but her lower back pressed against the edge of the stove. Lu Mingze reached out to steady the fire tongs that were about to tip over, and his arm encircled her in the warm little space. He smelled of cedar soap mixed with a faint odor of iodine, like the intertwining of a kiln fire and accumulated snow in winter.

"Be careful, it'll burn you." His fingertips brushed across the top of her hair, brushing away a pine needle stuck to it. "We're going to stay up all night tonight, don't burn yourself into a pottery pottery pot."

As Lin Zhixia watched him turn away, half a piece of gauze peeked out from the folds of his work pants at the back of his waist. She suddenly remembered the conversation she had overheard the night before. Jiang Yun cried and said, "The doctor said that if we delay any longer, it will affect your nerves," but he just said calmly, "Let's talk about it when Zhixia can independently observe the color of the fire."

The New Year's Eve dinner at the studio was set out rather hastily. A blue-printed tablecloth, hand-sewn by Jiang Yun, was laid on the kneading table. Some of the sweet and sour pork rib sauce had accidentally seeped in, leaving dark patterns on the cloth. When Lin Zhixia was serving soup to Lu Mingze, she noticed that the gauze on his wrist was bleeding again—this morning he had insisted on helping her move that old kiln that weighed eighty pounds.

"Change the gauze." She put down the soup spoon, her voice unconsciously carrying a hint of command.

Lu Mingze tried to dodge, but she pressed his shoulder down. The warmth of her palms from kneading the mud seeped through the work clothes, reminding him of last year's Frost's Descent, when she applied plaster to his back and accidentally got some ointment on her fingertips, drawing a crooked little tiger on his lower back.

"Does it hurt?" She unwrapped the gauze very gently, as if peeling off a layer of enamel. The old wound glowed pink under the warm yellow light, and the surrounding skin was somewhat purplish from long-term pressure, like a withering red plum blossom.

"It doesn't hurt." He looked at her lowered eyes, her eyelashes casting dappled shadows under her eyes, and suddenly remembered the way she squatted in the glaze room crying when she first came here three years ago—at that time, she used the finest jade green glaze as if it were ordinary pigment, and she cried in desperation, but stubbornly refused to ask for help.

Suddenly, a string of firecrackers exploded outside the window. Lin Zhixia hurriedly reached out to cover his ears, forgetting that she was still holding an iodine swab. The dark brown medicine smeared onto his collar, like a flower blown askew by the wind.

"Look at you." He smiled and took the cotton swab away, but as he wiped her hands, his fingertips brushed against the calluses on her hands—much thicker than when she first arrived, marks from holding a bamboo knife to trim clay.

As the clock struck midnight, Jiang Yun came out of the kitchen carrying dumplings, her eyes crinkling with a smile, and said, "Make a wish quickly." Lin Zhixia looked at the flickering candlelight and suddenly remembered what Lu Mingze had once said: "Opening the kiln" in pottery is like making a wish; you never know the outcome until the very last moment.

She stole a glance at the person beside her and found that he was also looking at her, his eyelashes covered with snowflakes that had fallen sometime earlier, like a handful of shattered diamonds. Jiang Yun's cough broke the silence, and Lu Mingze suddenly got up to add charcoal, the curve of his lower back trembling slightly in the firelight, like a piece of pottery about to crack.

As the spring breeze, carrying the scent of plum blossoms, drifted into the courtyard, Lin Zhixia was sifting glaze. Cobalt blue powder dripped through the sieve, accumulating into tiny galaxies on the bluestone slab. Lu Mingze passed by carrying sun-dried clay blanks, half a copy of "A Collection of Ceramic Glaze Recipes" peeking out of his work pants pocket. The pages were frayed, and tucked inside were dried flower bookmarks she had made last year.

"It's windy, let's go back inside and sift it." He stacked the clay blanks in the shade and took the sieve from her hand. "If the wind keeps blowing, your eyes will turn into blue and white porcelain."

She looked up at him and noticed that he wasn't wearing a scarf today, and there was a light brown scar on his exposed neck—a scar left from the kiln explosion six years ago. She hadn't arrived then, but Jiang Yun told her that he had used his body to shield a batch of students' works from the shattering bricks.

"Did you watch the fire again last night?" He suddenly reached out and brushed his fingertips against the dark circles under her eyes. "Even the crackle pattern on Jun porcelain isn't as beautiful as the lines under your eyes."

Lin Zhixia slapped his hand away, but stopped abruptly when she touched the calluses on his palm. The calluses were distributed in a very regular pattern, marks left by years of holding bamboo knives, supporting the clay body, and turning the potter's wheel, like a miniature map of pottery.

“Brother Lu,” she said, pointing to the bamboo grove sprouting in the distance, “last year, the customer wanted the bamboo-shaped cups with the character ‘spring’ engraved on them.”

He placed the sieve on the stone table, took out a newly sharpened bamboo knife from his apron pocket, with a small "Xia" character carved on the handle and fresh knife marks on the edge: "Let's make it clear first, if you carve more than three bad ones, I'll punish you by making you brew old tea for me for a month."

She grabbed a handful of cobalt blue powder, intending to sprinkle it on him, but he laughed and dodged it. The powder landed on his chest like suddenly blooming blue flowers, then was gently scattered by the spring breeze. In the distance, Jiang Yun's voice called for dinner to be served. He suddenly bent down, tightened the apron strap that had been blown away by the wind, and tied a bow behind her waist with his fingertips, his movements as practiced as if he had kneaded clay a thousand times.

The blue plumbago flowerpot sat on the windowsill. The newly replaced ceramic pot had a bear paw print engraved on the bottom, which Lin Zhixia had secretly carved while Lu Mingze was taking a nap. She squatted down beside the flower to water it and heard the "rustling" sound of footsteps behind her—it was his specially made non-slip boots, with anti-slip patterns embedded in the soles, like the fire marks on kiln bricks.

"It's time to fertilize." Lu Mingze handed over a small ceramic jar filled with composted organic fertilizer. "Burying the dead leaves from last winter in there is better than buying fertilizer."

She took the earthenware pot, but accidentally cut her finger while pouring it. Blood dripped onto the rim of the pot, like a suddenly blooming red plum blossom. Lu Mingze frowned and pulled out a handkerchief, only to find it stained with cobalt blue—she had been mixing peacock blue glaze when he wiped her hands last time.

"Clumsy." He took her hand, gently sucking away the drop of blood with the ease of applying glaze to a clay piece. Lin Zhixia's earlobes instantly burned, feeling his tongue lightly lick her like the glow of a kiln, leaving a tingling sensation. "Does it hurt?" He looked up at her, his eyelashes casting dappled shadows in the sunlight. "When I was teaching students, there was a child who always got cut by the clay, so I wrapped strips of cloth around each bamboo knife."

She gazed at the old scar on his wrist and suddenly remembered seeing him applying pain relief patches in front of the mirror in the break room last night. His back was hunched over, like a silent kiln, and the old scar on his lower back was as grotesque as a snake, with the surrounding skin an unnatural red.

“Brother Lu,” she said softly, “when the peach blossoms bloom, let’s go to Fuliang to see the kilns for underglaze red porcelain.”

He wrapped the handkerchief around her wrist and gently pressed his fingertips against her wrist: "Okay, go when you can tell the difference between 'ruby red' and 'blood red'."

The mud in the mud-awakening pool gleamed with a warm light. Lin Zhixia squatted by the pool, stirring it. The mud splattered onto her apron with the wooden stick, like an abstract ink painting. Lu Mingze leaned against the door frame watching her, twirling a newly carved bamboo knife in his hand. The character "Xia" on the blade was polished to a shine; he had spent three late nights carving it.

“When adding aged clay, stir clockwise.” He walked over, a pain relief patch peeking out of his work pants pocket. “Last year you stirred counterclockwise, and the clay was full of air bubbles.”

She stuck out her tongue and poured the stale mud into the pool. The mud splashed onto her cheeks from the wooden spoon, and Lu Mingze smiled as he pulled a handkerchief from his apron pocket to wipe it off. His fingertips traced the bridge of her nose, then suddenly stopped—there was a bit of mud there, like the nose of a small animal.

"Mud monkey." He chuckled softly, gently rubbing the mud with his thumb. "Last time Jiang Yun said you looked like you were fished out of the mud, and she was absolutely right."

Lin Zhixia tried to dodge, but accidentally bumped into his arms. His heartbeat came through the fabric, steady and strong, like the constant firing temperature in a kiln. She smelled the scent of cedar and clay on him, and suddenly remembered the ring mark on his ring finger that she had dreamed of last night, that light-colored mark, like the little bear paw print she had carved on his ceramic cup.

"Watch out!" He suddenly reached out and steadied her crooked wooden stick, his arm wrapping around her shoulder, his breath warm against her skin. Lin Zhixia could hear her own heart pounding in her ears, like the flames in a kiln.

From afar came Jiang Yun's voice calling them to drink pear soup. Lu Mingze let go of her hand and stuffed the bamboo knife into her hand: "I'll teach you how to shape clay this afternoon. If you get distracted again, I'll just mold you into a ball like clay."

She gripped the bamboo knife tightly and noticed a row of small characters engraved on the handle—"To Zhixia, dearly engraved with an extremely fine knife, so fine that she had to bring it close to her eyes to see them clearly. Outside the window, spring thunder rumbled faintly. Watching his retreating figure as he walked towards the kiln, she suddenly felt that some words, like the glaze in a kiln, must be fired at high temperatures to reveal their true form.

This was Lin Zhixia's first time observing the fire independently. The kiln was sweltering, and she stared intently at the observation hole, her palms sweating so much that the thermometer was soaked. Lu Mingze stood behind her, occasionally reaching out to adjust the air vent for her. When his sleeve slipped down, it revealed a newly applied gauze bandage on his wrist—wider than yesterday's.

"It's time to reduce the heat now." His voice, though mixed with the roar of the kiln fire, was exceptionally clear. "Look at the color of the flames, doesn't it resemble the cherry blossom pink glaze you mixed yesterday?"

She leaned closer to the observation hole; the flames licked the kiln bricks, turning them a soft pinkish-purple, much like the cherry blossoms outside the studio window. Suddenly, a soft crackling sound came from inside the kiln. She instinctively took a half step back, only to bump into Lu Mingze's arms.

"Don't be afraid, it's the sound of the kiln changing." He gently placed his hand on her shoulder, his fingertips rubbing her collarbone through her clothes. "Last time Jiang Yun opened the kiln, she almost threw away the thermometer when she heard this sound."

Lin Zhixia gazed at the flickering fire in his eyes and suddenly remembered the surgical consent form she had found in his drawer the night before. The three characters "Lu Mingze" were boldly written in the signature section, but the date section was blank, like a blank sheet of clay waiting to be fired.

“Brother Lu,” she said, her nose almost touching his chin as she turned around, “when this batch of porcelain comes out of the kiln, will you teach me how to make underglaze red?”

He raised an eyebrow at her, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly in the firelight: "Okay, but let's make this clear first—"

The kiln door suddenly opened, and a wave of heat, accompanied by dazzling light, rushed out. Lin Zhixia exclaimed in surprise, seeing the porcelain inside gleaming with a warm light, some glazes like morning dew, others like the flowing glow of sunset. Lu Mingze suddenly reached out and covered her eyes, his palm resting on her eyelids, still warm from the kiln fire.

"Don't look at it for too long, it'll hurt your eyes." His voice fell close to her ear. "The first time you open a kiln, you have to learn to close your eyes first."

She obediently closed her eyes, but felt his fingers gently brush against her eyelashes, like tracing the outline of a piece of porcelain. Outside, Jiang Yun's cheers rang out. Lin Zhixia heard her heart pounding like a drum, and suddenly understood that some secrets, like glaze in a kiln, must endure a long wait before they can bloom with their most captivating colors at the moment the kiln is opened.

The peach blossoms in Fuliang were in full bloom. Lin Zhixia squatted under a peach tree, picking up fallen petals. Pale pink petals landed in her hair like scattered wisps of sunset. Lu Mingze leaned against the peach tree, watching her. Half of a copy of "Tao Shuo" peeked out from his work pants pocket, with a dried flower bookmark she had given him tucked between the pages.

"Making floral glaze?" He kicked away a small pebble at his feet, which rolled into the grass and startled a blue dragonfly. "Last year, the glaze you made with pear blossoms looked like piles of snow when it was fired."

She looked up and smiled, peach blossoms falling on her eyelashes, much like the pink patterns that occasionally appear during kiln firing: "This year, using peach blossoms might just produce a glaze that changes color."

He walked over, reached out and removed the flower petals from her hair, his fingertips brushing behind her ear as he whispered, "Color-changing glaze is hard to fire; if you're not careful, it'll just look like 'ghostly scribbles'."

Lin Zhixia suddenly remembered the wound on his lower back that she had seen when she changed his dressing that morning. The skin around the old scar was badly swollen and red, like a piece of clay that had been soaked in rainwater. She was about to ask about the surgery when she saw him quickly pull his shirt over his head and say with a smile, "It's just a small wound, nothing serious."

“Brother Lu,” she suddenly grabbed his hand, peach blossoms falling on the backs of their intertwined hands, “when your back is better, let’s go climb the ancient kiln site in Yaoli.”

He gazed at the distant, rolling tea mountains, his Adam's apple bobbing: "Alright, I'll go when you can independently complete the entire underglaze red process."

(End of this chapter)