It had drizzled last night, and hints of fog drifted throughout the air, thin and white.
It was five in the morning, just after dawn, and the air was slightly cold.
Fu Chen was holding a brush and copying scriptures on a piece of golden Xuan paper. A bronze incense burner was beside him, with smoke curling upward, filling the room with a sandalwood fragrance.
Beside his hand were a purple clay teapot with white steam wafting out of the mouth and half a cup of tea.
The old gramophone was playing 'Snow in June':
"Snowflakes fly in the summer of June; My son will come back alive…"
Someone knocked on the door softly. Without looking up, Fu Chen said, "Come in."
Shi Fang pushed the door open and entered. "Third Master, something happened."
"What?" Fu Chen put down his brush and placed the copied scripture aside. When the ink was dry, he turned around and turned off the gramophone.
