Five silver dollars for a bowl of tea—an outrageously steep price.
On the surface, five silver dollars were enough to feed an ordinary family for a month.
Chen Mo did not haggle. He counted out five silver dollars from his pocket and lined them up on the low table.
The woman reached out and drew the silver dollars over to herself one by one.
Her hand was very white, white as porcelain.
Her fingers had one more joint than a normal person's, and every one of them could bend in any direction.
Chen Mo stared at her hand for half a second before looking away.
The woman picked up a silver dollar, held it to her lips, and blew on it.
After confirming it was genuine, she put it into the black jar beneath the low table. Then she lifted the earthenware pot and poured tea into an earthenware bowl.
The tea flowing from the spout was pitch-black, yet the scent it gave off was unexpectedly fresh.
Not a wisp of steam rose from the tea. Instead, a thin layer of white mist slowly sank over its surface.
The woman pushed the bowl over and made a gesture of invitation.
"I'll return the bowl later."
Chen Mo picked up the bowl and turned to walk back.
He lowered his head for a look at the tea. The white mist on its surface was still sinking, and the bowl felt piercingly cold against his hand.
The living could only drink one bowl, while the dead got half a bowl?
The old man was still squatting where he was. When he saw Chen Mo return with the bowl of tea, a glimmer flashed through his clouded eyes.
He downed half the bowl in one breath before letting out a long sigh.
"Refreshing."