Bai Zhu's Residence.
In the quiet room, the candle flame danced silently, as a young man and a man sat beside the same table.
Zi Huang leaned his entire body weight against the back of the chair, his eyes vacantly fixed on an empty spot. Before him was tea that had gone cold, and yet his lips were chapped.
"I have a fondness for ancient paintings, Mr. Pei," he muttered, "It all began on the eleventh day of July."
...
...
On the eleventh day of July, in the summer, the sound of rain drizzled softly.
Late at night.
Zi Huang leaned against the couch, flipping through newspapers under candlelight when suddenly three knocks echoed from the door, accompanied by the sound of rain.
Xu Jianzheng rose to open the door, and as the candlelight spilled out, there stood an old friend not contacted for a long time — it was the famous painter from a neighboring state, Zhang Zijing.
