White Peony’s Tea Legends Vol.1

Anhui, Qing Dynasty

If you stare at the Huangshan Mountains for too long, you might lose your sense of time. Everyone in the region knew this. Some said it was the mist, wrapping itself around the peaks as if nature itself wished to hide them. Others believed it was the work of ancient spirits, bored and mischievous, leading travelers in endless circles for their own amusement. Li Wei knew this, but he kept staring. He didn’t care how many hours he spent watching those strange peaks, covered in wisps of cloud like stray threads of a celestial tapestry. Because his real life felt even more obscure. Li Wei was a tea picker. Or at least, he liked to think so. He knew nothing about Pu-erh aged tea or tea brewing essentials. In reality, he was just a guy with a remarkable talent for disappearing at the right moment—especially when work was involved. “Maofen is not just tea,” said old Master Zhang one day, watching as Li Wei once again attempted to slip away from another task. “It is memory. The memory of those who are no longer here.” “That sounds very inspiring,” Li Wei yawned. “Can I become a memory too? Right now?” Master Zhang only shook his head. But soon, Li Wei would learn that joking with the Huangshan Mountains was a terrible idea.

Lovers Who Never Existed

Legend had it that long ago, two lovers lived in these mountains—Mei Lan and Sun Hai. She was the daughter of a poor farmer. He was also a poor farmer but fancied himself a poet. “I would compare your eyes to the moon,” Sun Hai would say. “But you’re probably too lazy to find a more original metaphor,” Mei Lan would laugh. They could have lived a dull yet happy life, but every story needs a villain. In this one, it was a local landlord named Guo Lin, who figured that since he had money and power, he might as well claim the girl too. “You will either become my wife,” he told Mei Lan, “or your poetic friend will learn just how quickly one can forget how to breathe.” It sounded as if he had rehearsed the line in front of a mirror. Mei Lan fled to the mountains. Sun Hai followed. But, as fate often dictates, things did not go as planned.

Maofen: The Tea That Grew from Tears

Li Wei had heard this story a hundred times but never believed it. That was until one day, he decided to hike into the mountains—if only to escape another lecture from Master Zhang. “If the mountain really holds memories,” he smirked, stepping onto the misty trails, “I’ll ask it where my future is.” The mist thickened. The air became heavier. And then, he heard a whisper: “Are you lost too?” He turned around and saw a girl. “Who are you?” “Mei Lan. But that doesn’t matter.” Li Wei wasn’t prone to hallucinations, but at that moment, he was fairly certain someone had slipped something into his tea. “Are you a ghost?” “What do you think?” She laughed, but there was sorrow in her eyes. “I’ve been here for a long time. My Sun Hai died protecting me. His blood soaked the earth, and my tears nourished the bushes that grew from it.” “And now what?” “Now I am part of this tea. And so will you be, if you stay.”

Time, Curled Like a Leaf

The next morning, Li Wei returned to the village with a single tea sprig. “You found Maofeng?” Master Zhang raised an eyebrow. “But how?””She showed me,” Li Wei replied. “Who?” “Mei Lan.” Master Zhang looked at him the way one looks at a man who has seen too much and yet too little at the same time.”You know what they say about this organic green tea?” “That it’s covered in fine hairs?” “That whoever finds it always returns to the mountains.” “Oh, come on. It’s just tea.” But when Li Wei brewed the Maofen using hand-painted teaware and took the first sip, he heard the whisper: “We will meet again.”

The Echo of Huangshan

Today, Huangshan Maofen single-origin tea is valued all over the world. Its taste is soft, like a mountain breeze, and slightly astringent, like the regret of not staying in the past. And everyone who drinks it feels a faint sorrow—like remembering something that never truly happened. Maybe it’s just artisanal tea. Or maybe, in each leaf, the whispers of those who were lost in the mountains still linger.