The morning mist was like a piece of wet cotton wool, pressing heavily on the bluestone road. Zheng Yaomeier used a long-handled bamboo clamp to carefully return the last bluestone slab to its place. There is still some moist moss on the edge of the stone slab, giving off the unique fishy-sweet smell of earth after rain. She straightened up, and the hem of her apron inadvertently brushed against the bamboo basket beside her. In the basket were neatly stacked the old books she had just received, and a strange smell mixed with the smell of musty and ink faintly wafted from the yellowed pages.
