Xuanhe seven years, late autumn.
The early morning in Bianjing City was shrouded in mist. There were already early-rising vendors pushing wheelbarrows on Zhuque Street, squeaking across the bluestone road. On the sycamore tree at the corner of the street, a few withered yellow leaves swirled and fell in the morning breeze, and happened to fall next to the bowl of a young man squatting in the corner drinking porridge.
The boy was about sixteen or seventeen years old. He was wearing a green cloth gown that had been washed white, with a few patches on the cuffs and fine and neat stitches. He carefully took out the withered leaf and continued to drink the corn porridge in the bowl with pickles so thin that a human figure could be seen. The old man at the porridge stall gave him another half a spoonful. The young man raised his head, revealing a thin but regular face.
