Arrive at the Dêgê Sutra Printing Hall at 5:30 PM and wait for the last visitors to leave. Watch as the courtyard empties and the last shutter closes. Stay behind as the carver gestures for you to wait behind the eastern pillar.

At 6:00 PM, listen as the footsteps fade and the keys rattle in the locks. Then, experience the silence as the carver emerges from the shadow, a ring of keys in his own hand—keys no tourist has ever seen.

At 6:15 PM, follow the carver as he unlocks a side door. Enter a smaller room with floor-to-ceiling shelves, each cubby stuffed with woodblocks wrapped in yellow cloth. At 6:30 PM, tell the carver your birth year. Watch as he runs his fingers along the spines of the blocks, feeling for something only he knows. Stop as he pulls one out.

At 6:45 PM, watch as he unwraps the cloth. See the block, black with ink, the carved letters deep as riverbeds. Watch as he touches the surface—not checking, just greeting.

At 7:00 PM, watch as he prepares the ink. Soot, glue, water. Mixed on a stone that has outlived three generations of carvers. Smell the ink as it fills the room: not sharp, not sweet. Ancient.

At 7:15 PM, watch as he inks the block. One even coat. See him lay the paper—long-fibered, soft, strong. Watch as he rolls the cylinder from top to bottom. One pass. No second chance.

At 7:20 PM, watch as he lifts the paper. See the characters, wet, black, reversed in your eyes. Watch as he sets it on the sill, facing the window, facing the mountain.

At 7:30 PM, wait with him as the ink dries. Watch as he choices it up, folds it once, and presses it into your palm. No wrapping. No envelope. Just paper against skin.

At 7:45 PM, follow him as he locks the side door and walks across the courtyard. Watch as he turns at the gate, nods once, then disappears into the dark of the old town. Look down at your hand. The ink has left a faint black stain on your palm.