The fog of the Huangpu River is like a thin layer of silk in the early morning, slowly climbing up from the stone steps of the Bund, wrapping the tall Western-style buildings and signboards into a half-awake dream. The whistle came from the river, low and long, like a love letter from a foreign country; the sampans at the pier swayed gently in the tide, and their oars made intermittent sounds, bringing with them waves of salty and wet smells. The heart of this city is beating slowly, both new and old, noisy and lonely - just like the beginning of many stories, there is always a little shadow left behind the brightness.
Lin Yulan stood beside an old railing on the Bund, holding an unopened silver letter in his hand. Her cheongsam was not yet fully fashionable, her waist was tucked in just right, and her bun had a few strands scattered in the morning breeze. She is not the kind of woman to follow the crowd: she likes reading history books and putting her teacup on the windowsill in the dead of night to watch the fog swallow up the street lights. But there was something different in the fog today - she knew that the letter contained news that her father had brought back from Bunnan Road in Shanghai. The news could be a turnaround in business or a prelude to the downfall of the family. She took a deep breath, and her fingers trembled slightly on the edge of the envelope, but she did not open it directly; it seemed that in one more second, some invisible dividing line would be formed.
At this moment, there was a noise from the street corner: a foreign car and a rickshaw were scraping against each other at the corner. After a few swear words, a child's cry cut through the morning fog.
