## Notes on Qinghui Garden: Seeking Coolness in the Folds of Time

Crossing the blue-brick gatehouse inscribed with the characters "Qing Hui," a clear chime of wind bells happened to ring from the eaves. The stifling heat of a Lingnan June suddenly dissipated by a third, as layers upon layers of dark tiles and white walls unfolded before my eyes, exuding the carefully crafted coolness designed by artisans centuries ago. The Manchu-style windows of Bixi Cottage are utterly mesmerizing. Noon sunlight streams through the stained glass, casting flowing amber patterns on the blue-brick floor. The grapevine motifs woven by Qing Dynasty craftsmen with lead strips suddenly come alive in the play of light and shadow, their vines creeping along the patterned floor tiles. One can almost hear the crisp sound of chess pieces striking the nanmu board, echoing the scholarly debates and tea-drinking gatherings of literati from a hundred years ago. Turning the corridor corner, the oyster-shell windows of the Boat Hall made me pause for a long while. Semi-transparent and thin as cicada wings, the oyster shells tremble slightly in the late spring breeze. This is unmistakably the unique architectural code of the Pearl River Delta—fishermen would clean and dry leftover oyster shells, forever preserving the briny scent within the garden's bones. When the setting sun filters through six thousand oyster shells, the entire hall transforms into a giant pearl oyster, breathing in and out amber-hued time. The pond before Chengyi Pavilion holds the great wisdom of the garden's designers. Lychee trees stretch their gnarled branches toward the water's surface, where reflections play with swimming fish, blurring the line between reality and illusion. Suddenly a koi leaps up, shattering the cloud reflections, only to reveal that the pond bottom isn't paved with ordinary pebbles but with coral fragments shipped from Nanyang centuries ago, blooming beneath the jade-green water into an undersea garden that never fades. At twilight, I encountered a century-old wisteria along the bamboo garden path. The twisted old branches are laden with butterfly-shaped flower clusters, while moonlight sifts through the carved wooden screens, inscribing Ming Dynasty artisans' hollowed-out poetry on the stone slabs. When the wind rises, bamboo shadows and floral silhouettes perform shadow plays on the whitewashed walls, as if the laughter of the Long family enjoying cool evenings and moonlit nights a century ago still lingers in the drifting fragrance of Murraya paniculata. Looking back upon leaving, the seemingly scattered pavilions suddenly connect into a vivid scroll painting. Qinghui Garden is ultimately not a static architectural specimen—when light and shadow dance between latticed windows, when moss spreads across lake stones, this garden becomes a breathing vessel of time, distilling Lingnan's bright moons, gentle breezes, and human warmth into tangible eternity.