Wan Yan teapot

The ancient books section of the library always carried a faint tea aroma. The first time Su Wan noticed Chen Yan, it was because of the unusually white purple clay teapot in front of him—its body as smooth as condensed fat, like a piece of jade soaked in moonlight amid the yellowed glow of old bookcases.

"This is made of local green clay," he suddenly looked up, tapping the lid lightly with his fingertip. "Rare in Yixing. If not fired properly, it turns bluish."

Su Wan's cheeks flushed. She’d actually been drawn to the small regular script carved on the bottom. "'Wan Yan'?"

"My name is Chen Yan," a smile flickered in his eyes. "Grandpa made this teapot. He said to give it to someone named 'Wan' when I met her."

After that, they always met on Wednesday afternoons. Chen Yan would bring a small tin of Biluochun, brewing it in the white clay teapot until the tea turned a clear, bright hue. He talked about temperature curves in dragon kilns, about the feel of clay gradually coming alive in one’s palms. Su Wan read poems to him, watching sunlight filter through the thin stream from the spout, shattering into golden speckles on the pages.

When June’s plum rain clung to the windowsills, Chen Yan had to return to Yixing for the summer. He tucked the white clay teapot into her backpack. "Don’t wash it with detergent. Just rinse with hot water."

Su Wan brewed tea daily at the empty seat, the "Wan Yan" inscribed on the bottom softened by steam. Until one day, she found smaller characters hidden inside the lid: "There was a small opening in the mountain, as if with light."

On the first day of the new semester, a new figure appeared in the ancient books section. Chen Yan held a small jar sealed with clay, followed by a smiling old man. "Grandpa said," he handed her the jar, which held moist green clay, "we should make a pair with our own hands to make it right."

The white clay teapot trembled softly on the table, as if echoing the cicadas chirping outside the window. Su Wan suddenly understood: some encounters are like fine clay meeting skilled hands—no need for pretense, they gently mellow with time, taking shape around each other.

Bian Piao, 120cc, White duan clay