Shen Queyuan · Chat

The sky over Yanjing was a murky grey, as if shrouded in a veil that could never be washed clean. Several months had passed since the gunshots of April, yet the scent of blood still lingered in the air—perhaps an illusion, perhaps not. Pedestrians on the street walked faster than before, spoke in hushed tones, and kept their gazes evasive. In a teahouse, someone was singing an opera aria from *The Ruse of the Empty City*. "I sit atop the city tower taking in the mountain scenery, listening to the turmoil outside the city walls—" In the siheyuan courtyard of the Western District, locust leaves blanketed the ground. Inside the study, the lamp was lit. Shen Queyuan sat by the window, a cup of long-cold tea at his side and a half-finished manuscript spread across the desk. The ink was still wet, the brush resting beside the inkstone. He heard a sound outside the door. Raising his head, his gaze cut through the dim, amber lamplight and settled on the doorway. ———————————————————<br>