A chilling dream struck him, yet Zhou Xuan did not wake up. He continued watching the clerks in his dream, their abacuses clicking rhythmically.
And he could only silently observe in the dream, unable to move his hands or feet.
When he gradually woke the next morning, he discovered that the bedsheets and blanket on his bed were drenched with sweat.
Zhou Xuan went to the wardrobe, fetched a fresh set of cotton bedding and blankets, replaced them, and brought the soaked sheets and duvet covers downstairs to wash.
As for the sweat-drenched cotton bedding, he could only wait for Fuzi to hang them out in the backyard to dry, once the sun was high.
While Zhou Xuan was happily scrubbing away at the laundry, Zhao Wuya's voice wafted over, carrying with it the aroma of fried dough cakes.
"Brother Xuan, we've got to hit the streets today for a little shirt fortune-telling. Don't stand them up."
Zhou Xuan raised his head to glance at Zhao Wuya and nearly burst out laughing.
