When the first light of dawn spills over the black-tiled roofs, Yijia Courtyard stirs awake from the mist. A bluestone path winds gently around clusters of late-blooming cherry blossoms, while climbing roses on the wooden fence cast their shadows upon the weathered white walllike lines of poetry sketched in faint ink.​Pushing open the door, one finds the stone table beneath the old camphor tree still bearing traces of last nights moonlight. Warm light seeps through bamboo-woven lampshades, lingering softly with the delicate tinkle of wind chimes at the eaves. The wicker chairs on the second-floor terrace always wait there, for the mountain breeze to bring the murmur of pine forests, for dusk to drift over distant bamboo groves, steeping the entire courtyard like a cup of warm tea.​Each room holds a unique story of time behind floral curtains, the mirror of an old vanity catches the drift of clouds outside the window; beside the log bookshelf, dried flowers in a clay jar still carry the fragrance of last autumn. Sleep comes to the lullaby of crickets at midnight, and at dawn, when the first ray of sunlight kisses you awake, the scent of freshly steamed rice cakes wafts from the kitchen.​Here, days stretch like threads of cotton, stringing together dewdrops, evening breezes, and starsstringing together the leisure of listening to rain under the corridor, the quiet of drying books by the eaves, and that tender vision of home nestled in every travelers heart.​