Song Ciwan looked back from the stone-paved street. On the adjacent river, a small bamboo boat was drifting toward her.
The small raft was the color of green jade. In its center, Yin Xunyi, a black coffin on his back, stood tall.
As Song Ciwan turned, Yin Xunyi raised the wine gourd in his hand and flashed a carefree smile. "The mountains are high and the rivers long, yet our paths cross again. Daoist Song, why not come aboard for a drink?"
He still seemed to carry the faint scent of wine. The sunlight from the horizon scattered like sparks, and where it touched him, even the fine lines at the corners of his eyes seemed to hold the flavor of a story.
The black coffin on his back was at once light and heavy, a contradiction that somehow felt perfectly whole.
His entire presence was so distinctive that anyone who saw him once would never mistake him for another.
