Shen Zhu Yi teapot

Autumn rain softened the veins of Huanglong Mountain. Shen Zhuyi stumbled through the grey mud when a figure slumped at the pit's edge caught her eye. She hauled the unconscious Gu Yunchuan back to her earthen hut in the mountain hollow.

He woke after three days of fever, his temple wounded, his leg useless. The hut smelled of herbs and damp earth. Shen Zhuyi tended the medicine pot, but mostly worked in silence, kneading her ancestral Azure Slope clay—deep green base flecked with gold sand and crimson specks, like captured stardust.

Night pains often startled him awake. Once, as he twisted in discomfort, she appeared soundlessly by his bed, handing him a new teapot. Small and perfectly rounded, it was fired from that same Azure Slope clay, deep as ancient jade, its starry points shimmering. Clear bamboo leaves, carved with a lonely resilience, graced its surface.

"Azure Slope clay quiets the spirit," she whispered, as if fearing to break the night. "Tea brewed in it daily heals."

His fingers traced the slightly rough, warm grooves of the bamboo. "Like you," he met her gaze, moonlight softening his eyes. "Clear, and strong."

When autumn deepened and his leg nearly healed, she handed him freshly brewed tea. The warm pot nestled in his palm. "Zhuyi," he said, warmth spreading from the clay, "come with me. To Suzhou."

Her carving knife slipped. Before she could answer, violent pounding shattered the silence. A steward barged in, his glance at Shen Zhuyi like shards of ice. "Young Master! The Zhou family presses for the wedding! The Gu family’s honor demands it! Forgive us!" Two servants seized Gu Yunchuan.

"Zhuyi! Wait for me! I’ll end the engagement!" he struggled, roaring. Frantically, he tore a jade bracelet from his wrist and hurled it towards her feet. "My pledge!"

Cold wind rushed in. Shen Zhuyi stood pale as stone, ignoring the glaring green on the floor, her gaze piercing the blackness beyond the door. Slowly, she lifted the still-warm teapot, grabbed a small hoe from the corner, and walked into the cold night.

The pit gaped like a wound. Kneeling in the freezing mud, she dug deep, gently placing the Azure Slope pot inside. Starlight caught the bamboo carvings for an instant before wet earth swallowed them.

"Clay returns to its source," she pressed mud-caked hands over the filled hole, her words scattering in the wind. "The pot returns home."

Twenty years later, weeds choked the pit. Shen Zhuyi's daughter, Gu Nianzhu, felt something hard in a rain-collapsed slope. Carefully brushing away the earth, she uncovered a flawless Azure Slope teapot, its bamboo leaves carved as if new.

In the old hut, a withered Gu Yunchuan sat facing a dust-sealed kiln. His daughter brought the pot. "Father, found in the pit."

His clouded eyes flashed with sudden sharpness. A skeletal hand snatched the pot, clutching it fiercely, knuckles white. A rusted scrape tore from his throat: "Zhu... Yi..."

"Boiling water! Now!" His stare was terrifying.

Scalding water met the icy pot—a sizzling explosion, a plume of steam. The stream poured into a coarse bowl. His trembling finger touched the surface—only to find a lingering warmth. Like a sun-dappled spring stream. Like the searing, tear-salted kiss imprinted on his soul from a cold, desperate night long ago.

"Zhuyi—!" A blood-raw scream tore through the hut. His knees crashed onto the dirt floor. His frail frame shook violently as he clutched the cold clay vessel, burying his grey head against it. Murky tears splashed onto the carved bamboo leaves, rolling down, soaking into decades of dust.

The thick grime of the old kiln entrance silently swallowed the soundless sob. In the bowl, the tea trembled slightly, steam curling, warm as if from another era.

Shui Ping teapot, 200cc，Cyan Jiangpo clay material