Qingzhou in July is like wet cotton wool soaked in warm water. It has not been completely dry since the beginning of summer, and the cold rain that stretches from dusk to late night has pushed the temperature of the entire city to the bottom. Even the wind carries a biting humidity, wrapped in the unique musty smell of the old city and the desolate after the fireworks have dissipated, and penetrates into every criss-crossing alley. Most of the houses in the old city are brick and wood structures from the 1980s and 1990s. The bluestone roads were washed shiny by the rain, with shallow puddles accumulating in the gaps. The dim yellow halo of the street lamps penetrated the rain and fog, casting mottled and shaking shadows on the ground. Occasionally, passers-by returning home late at night hurried past with umbrellas, and the sound of their footsteps splashed with water, but was soon swallowed up by the sound of rain, and fell into deathly silence.
