When Silent Yan came out of the "Jiang Poster" newspaper office, it was already a quarter past ten at night. The shops on the street had long been closed, and only a few gas lamps swayed in the cold wind, making the shadows of pedestrians grow and shrink. He wrapped himself tightly in the washed gray cotton robe and walked home with his neck hunched.
The cold wind penetrated his collar like a knife. Silent Yan put his hands in his sleeves and quickened his pace. He has walked this Xiafei Road for three years, and he can touch home even with his eyes closed. The stall selling candied haws on the roadside has closed down early, leaving only the bamboo sticks stuck on the straw handles on the shelves, shivering in the wind.
When he turned into his own alley, he stopped.
There was a man sitting on the steps in front of his house.
