The autumn was bleak, and the Confucian temple stood in dilapidated silence.
The temple was half-abandoned, its caretaker nowhere to be found. Old Master Yang pushed open the creaking door and was greeted by the rhythmic sound of a loom. The stone floors inside had been swept clean, with half-dried vegetables laid out to dry.
Under the eaves, an elderly woman with graying hair worked at her loom, its wooden frame creaking with each movement. Old Master Yang's expression grew distant, as if seeing the ghost of his long-departed mother.
In his youth, his mother had woven cloth day after day beneath their own eaves to pay for his schooling.
"Elder sir, have you come to offer incense?" Shen's Mother paused her weaving. "The caretaker isn't here, but you may light incense yourself."
Old Master Yang, a man of simple habits, dressed plainly and appeared no different from any other elderly passerby.
