Chronicles of Floating Dust: Chapter One

During the plum-rain season of 1937, as moisture from the Suzhou Creek drifted into the alleys beside Jing’an Temple, A Che had just turned sixteen. Wearing a coarse cotton jacket washed faded blue, he stood beneath the peeling red-lacquered gate of the Yihong House, watching the rain dripping from the eaves tap tiny pits into the bluestone pavement.

“Lift your head.” A woman with finely penciled brows appeared behind the carved second-floor window. Her voice was like ginger tea steeped in honey, warm with a hint of bite. A Che clenched the prescription hidden in his sleeve. It was the path his mother had pointed him toward with her final breath. Slowly, he raised his head, revealing eyes blurred by rain and mist, black as a deep pool. The corners tilted slightly upward, but there was no trace of seductive charm, only the youthful innocence of a boy.

The woman was Auntie Hong, the owner of Yihong House. She had a maid lead A Che to the servants’ quarters in the back courtyard, then tossed him a moon-white long gown. “From today on, you’re no longer called A Che. Your name is Yulang. Remember, here your tongue must be softer than your hands, and your gaze darker than the lanterns.”