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After the Zhongyuan Festival passed, another torrential rain came pouring down.
Little Yin and Lin Yuanmiao sat beneath the covered corridor, watching the rain.
The rain was heavy, so much so that the raindrops became indistinguishable from one another, like a curtain of water.
Countless drops struck the roof tiles, washing them until they shone black. The rivulets that gathered slipped down from the eaves like mini waterfalls.
Neither of them stood on ceremony and simply sat on the threshold.
Lin Yuanmiao patted his knee and recited, “I lament how short life is, without knowing that my own return was a funeral march. I dislike ambitions too small, then end up shackled. In this noisy world, I take the stage when your song ends. How absurd it is for one’s labor to end up benefiting others.”
Little Yin propped her chin with both hands, bored out of her mind. “Old Lin, who are you even talking about in that sarcastic tone?”
“I’m just lamenting from the heart.” Lin Yuanmiao gazed beyond the rain corridor at the crisscrossing flow of Daoists. Some carried uniform yellow oil-paper umbrellas, so they resembled fallen leaves drifting by. Some relied on their cultivation...
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