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Time flew by.
It was late November, the time of the Minor Snow solar term.
The two date trees had shed all their leaves, their bare branches stark against the sky; the dried fallen leaves scraped and rustled against the stone slabs.
Wulong lay on the threshold, his large black eyes intently following the leaves as they drifted from left to right, then back from right to left.
Fan Xinglai wrapped his clothes tighter around him and ran to sweep away the last of the fallen leaves from under the eaves.
Liang Qu had practiced his spear movements in the early morning, creating gusts that whisked away the last few leaves from the date trees.
Fortunately, they were all gone now, and there would be no more until next autumn.
Fan Xinglai shoveled up the leaves with a dustpan, planning to bury them in the tree pits, when suddenly he heard a knock at the door. Placing the broom on top of the dustpan, he ran to open it.
