The rainy season had inexplicably arrived early...
At noon, the sky was as dark as dusk. Ink-black clouds hung low, pressing down upon the mountain peaks as they surged and flowed. The rain was not heavy, but the thunder was deafening. Lightning flashed from time to time, illuminating the clouds, the ruins, and the desolate riverbank overgrown with wild vines, where scarcely a human footprint could be found.
The barren land had been washed by rain. There were no people, and no roads.
Only far, far beyond the wasteland was there a secluded official road choked with weeds. A few meager plots of farmland supported a thatched postal station. Judging by the wear on the hitching posts, travelers rarely came through. It seemed that all people and beasts avoided this land; there were even rumors that not even ghosts wished to linger here.
The thatched hut was old, its roof patched with straw of varying ages, and mugwort grew thick around the base of its walls.
The chimney weakly puffed out smoke.
On such a gloomy, rainy day, even the thick smoke seemed pressed down. After pouring from the chimney, it drifted slowly and feebly along the roof, stinging the eyes.
Intermittent coughing came from inside...
"Cough, cough... Bring the palm-leaf fan over here. The smoke's pouring back out again, cough cough..."
As someone fanned inside the room, smoke finally began to rise from the chimney.
The thatched hut was full of smoke.
A burly man was cooking with all his strength before the stove, his eyes red and brimming with tears from the smoke.
A little boy squatted beside him, occasionally turning to look at the flashes of lightning beyond the doorway. By the time the thunder reached them, it was already muffled, and was further buried beneath the