Anling, the same deep night.
The sky hung low, the stars sparse, a cold moon high in the sky cast down a silvery, chilly radiance, dressing this silent night in a thin layer of frost.
The evening wind from north to south howled, all else silent, the cold wind sharp as a blade, silently threading through the open streets and deep alleys. On either side of the street, the bare trees under the moonlight cast twisted, elongated shadows. As the north wind swept past, it stirred the dry branches to make a "squeaking and creaking" noise, like the low chants of an ancient battlefield, chilling to the bone.
Lin Chuan stood in front of the window sill, holding a cup of light tea in his hand.
A hint of vigilance flickered between his eyes.
It was now December 29.
At the year-end, the company's reports were all being summarized, Little Landlady in the living room, busily tinkering with a mountain of files.