By December, the intermittent snowfall had yet to cease. Although it didn't amount to a snow disaster, the roads were perpetually jammed, leading to the closing of the private school, freeing both the third and the eldest sons from their studies.
The cold of ancient winters was truly biting, and Zhulan rarely ventured outside, preferring to cocoon herself on the heated brick bed. Most of the time, she learned needlework from Zhao Shi, and sometimes she would read books and recognize characters. That's right, recognize characters, as someone used to simplified Chinese characters, deciphering the traditional ones was a guessing game beyond the familiar, rendering her completely illiterate when it came to writing. Without correct strokes or structure, she never got it right.
