Teaware, to me, began as nothing more than practical utensils—jars and pots. That was until the arrival of that old cast iron kettle.

It was a gift from a friend returning from Japan, simple and unadorned in form, weighty in the hand. The body bore no intricate patterns, only a dark, weathered patina accumulated over the years, known as its "iron skin." Upon closer look, its texture seemed to凝结 (solidify) countless silent dawns and dusks. My friend said it was an ordinary piece from Nanbu cast iron, yet it had passed through the hands of two or three generations of tea drinkers.

I first used it to boil water on a deep autumn night. Pouring in clear water, I placed it on a small electric hob. At first, there was nothing unusual, just the faint sound of the pot bottom meeting the heating surface. Gradually, a very low, very deep murmur arose from the depths of the pot's belly, like a subterranean stream's sob or the distant sigh of pines at twilight. It was not the clamor of boiling, but a slow, solemn dialogue between iron and fire, water and time, within that enclosed space. Occasionally, a wisp of steam escaped the spout, carrying the slightly metallic, mineral scent characteristic of iron—a smell not pungent, but strangely reassuring in its simplicity.

I kept vigil by this pot, watching the water progress from stillness to forming tiny crab-eye bubbles, then to a chain of rising pearls, and finally to a state where the waves subsided entirely, the surface like a mirror, with only a faint roll at the edges—what is called "billows drumming waves." This entire process could not be rushed or hurried. The old pot conducted heat evenly and steadily, adhering to its own rules and rhythm. In the waiting, the sounds of traffic and conversation outside the window gradually faded, until my ears held only that increasingly distinct "sound of wind in the pines." My heart, within this primordial music, settled inch by inch, sinking into the pot's soon-to-be-boiling tranquility.

I thought of the ancient concept of "live fire, ripe water." Charcoal must burn through, the fire must be "alive," and the water must cease at the third boil. This iron kettle, perhaps, is the modern continuation of that "live fire" spirit. It does not seek the efficiency of instantaneous boiling. Instead, using its iron walls as a siege, it traps the leaping flame, forcing it to penetrate inward, to engage meticulously with each water molecule. Water boiled this way is said to be softer, smoother, better able to draw out the tea's most essential flavor. But I believe what it first boils away is the brewer's own restlessness.

Thus, the pot became my companion at dawn and dusk. On sunny days, with the first faint light, boiling water would make the pot's body reflect a warm, gentle glow. On rainy days, amidst the misty vapor, the pot's low murmur would mix with the drip from the eaves, adding to the sense of secluded quiet. The more the pot was used, the more lustrous its iron skin became—a patina written by the combined traces of fire, water, and the warmth of fingertips. It ceased to be a mere utensil, becoming instead a visible, tangible stretch of time. Each boiling within it felt like a revisiting, a distillation, of past moments of peace.

And so I understood: what is being brewed here is far more than water. It is steeping fluid time with constant fire; it is simmering a cluttered mind within silent iron. When the lid is lifted, and the white steam billows forth, it is as if all those brewed, weighty moments are transformed into this drinkable, warm present held in the hands. The sounds of all things are gathered into this strand of pine wind; the thoughts of a thousand autumns are entrusted to this pot of mist and glow. The years within the pot are indeed this long, sufficient to settle a heart feeling somewhat hurried in the modern world.