West Lake in March

A sudden rain fell in Qingming's third month; by West Lake, the willows were like smoke.

Every Qingming Festival, the people of Suzhou and Hangzhou would travel together for spring outings. Little bridges, misty rain, black-canopied boats—tourists along the banks held oil-paper umbrellas, admiring the hazy splendor of West Lake locked beneath rain and mist.

White fog blanketed the water, like a boat sailing through a sea of clouds; the green mountains on the far shore could not be seen clearly.

The poet's inspiration surged. He poured himself a cup of fine wine, half drunk and half awake, calling himself an immortal in wine.

The tourists flowed like a woven tapestry, admiring flowers and weeping willows. The spring breeze was gentle, the spring water pleasant. Even unmarried daughters of wealthy households would come to the lakeside with their family and maids to enjoy the spring, perhaps secretly hoping to meet a refined and talented scholar and make a fine tale of it.

It was rare to see thousands, even tens of thousands, holding umbrellas as they toured the lake. A certain someone would surely have liked it.

The umbrella vendors' business flourished.

Some things were strange. For example, in certain places, it rained every Qingming Festival—sometimes heavily, sometimes in a drizzle—year after year, which was rather peculiar.

Xu Xian stood alone beneath a tree, sheltering from the rain.

The swaddled infant of those days had grown, nineteen years later, into a handsome young gentleman, graceful as a jade tree in the wind. He had specially dressed up for today's lake outing and spring excursion. His hair was secured with a smooth wooden pin, and he wore the typical long robe of a scholar-commoner. Holding a folding fan, he looked helpless.

"Did Sister and Brother-in-law truly forget this little brother of