They called it a ferry landing, but it was really just a remote little wharf. The Qingyi River curved around here and its current slowed, making it a place to load and unload cargo. A few wooden posts stood crookedly on the wharf, with two black-canopied boats tied to them. The tung oil had long since peeled off the planks, exposing the gray-white grain beneath. It was early autumn in the twenty-third year of the Republic of China.
Under the old locust tree at the entrance to Lihua Ferry Village, several boys, not quite grown, crouched and poked at the ants on the ground with twigs. Half the leaves had turned yellow, and they rustled down whenever the wind blew.
This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Please do not imitate.
