The early mornings in Fog City Port are always shrouded in thick fog that cannot be resolved. The steam in the brass pipes is bubbling, winding and climbing along the spiers of the Gothic buildings, and finally melts into the gray sky. Jiang Yuheng pushed the oak book trolley, his fingertips ran across the rows of gilded book spines, and his eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses were as gentle as the moonlight in the fog.
