On the eve of the Lunar New Year, the sky begins to sprinkle with snowflakes.
The gloomy horizon gradually loses daylight, only the last hint of light lingers.
Snowflakes dance like catkins in the spring, landing on the tops of trees, roofs, and the ground.
Landon.
Inside a classic and exquisite courtyard house.
In the yard, a tall pomegranate tree stands majestically.
Its bare branches slant towards the sky, dissecting it into pieces of a puzzle.
A tall man stands in the biting wind.
His facial contours are as firm and resolute as if they were chiseled. His thin lips are tightly pressed, his gaze loaded with depths of frosty chill.
Sylvan Cheney, dressed in a long black coat, directs his deep gaze at the vast, snowy sky in the distance.
The sky is gloomy, without sun, and the surroundings are shrouded in fog.
A cigarette is sandwiched between his right fingers.
