The Yin Severer

The rain in the old district always carries a stale smell, like moldy tea steeped for ten years. It splashes across the bluestone streets, and even the droplets seem tinged with dust. As Lin Jiuyue closes his umbrella, his long, bony fingers pause against its ribs. Raindrops run down the dark red tung-oil coating, gathering in a small puddle by his feet that reflects half his face, hidden beneath his bamboo hat.