Find the courtyard and step inside. See the 73-year-old master already at work at a low table, with a stack of paper and a block face up beside him. He looks up, nods, and gestures to a stool.

Watch as he shows you the blocks. Some are wrapped in cloth, some stacked openly. He pulls one out, turns it over. The back is carved with characters you can’t read: 光绪十七年.

See him mix pigment. Powder in a bowl, water from a jar, glue from a scrap of dried hide. He stirs with a bamboo stick. No measuring. Just until it “feels right.”

Watch him print. One even coat of ink. The paper laid flat. A roller passed over once, twice. He lifts the paper. A door god stares back, fierce and ancient.

Try your hand at printing. Lay the paper crooked. He says nothing. Lifts it off, sets it aside, hands you another sheet. Try again. Still crooked. He almost smiles.

Enjoy a cup of tea. Not for show. Just a cracked ceramic mug, jasmine petals floating, pushed toward you across the table.

Ask about the blocks. Hear which ones he inherited, which ones he carved himself, which ones he will never use again.

Prepare to leave. He walks to a cabinet, opens a drawer, takes out a print. Not one he made today. One he made years ago, saved for someone. He hands it to you. Doesn’t say which one it is. Doesn’t explain why he chose it. Take it. Leave. At the gate, turn back. He’s already bent over the table, printing another sheet.