The Lost Tomb: ...
The March rain over West Lake was as fine as silk, falling on the bluestone slabs without a sound.
The shop at the head of Xiling Bridge had a low eave; most of the paint on its plaque had peeled away, leaving only the character "斋" barely legible. The door was left ajar, and when the wind blew past, it creaked once, then creaked again.
At the end of the alley, a van rolled through the puddles, and the splashes soaked the tufts of wild grass at the foot of the wall. The muffled drone of the engine faded into the distance, and all around grew quiet once more — so quiet that you could hear the rain dripping down one drop at a time from the eaves tiles.
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