The seats by the window on the second floor of the teahouse were disliked by others because they were exposed to the sun.
Mu Zhiyao was lying there, one long leg resting on the empty chair opposite, half of his face buried in his arms, as if he was asleep. The sunlight passed through the half-rolled bamboo curtain and fell on him, turning the washed-white dark green gown into a faint gray-blue color. The small copper bell hanging on his waist swayed slightly with his breathing, making a thin, almost inaudible sound.
The lobby downstairs was noisy, with waiters walking back and forth carrying trays, and the storyteller banging the wakeboard, telling the latest news in Dongdu - the young master of the Wang family in the east of the city was wandering the streets in the middle of the night, and meeting his own parents was like meeting a stranger. His eyes were empty and he couldn't speak. He was like a walking zombie.
