The rain in late spring always carries a sticky feeling that cannot be broken away.
When Shen Yanzhi stepped into this abandoned house, the tip of his shoe just crossed the threshold when he kicked something soft. Looking down through the dim light from the oil-paper umbrella, I saw half of a pair of brocade shoes embroidered with mandarin ducks, as red as if soaked in blood.
"Master Shen, you're late." The voice of the head catcher Zhao Kui was muffled in the rain. The lantern in his hand illuminated the threshold of the main room, "Miss Li is hanging on the beam, her tongue is hanging out, her eyes are wide..."
