Wen Ning woke at first light the next morning.
In truth, he had barely slept soundly at all.
He had lain on bedding made of dry hay, with two rabbit spirits beside him. Those two really were carefree, sleeping so soundly while sharing a room with a stranger.
Wen Ning quietly climbed off the bed, put on his shoes, pushed open the wooden door, and stepped outside.
The mountain morning was far colder than he had imagined.
The mist had yet to disperse. A white layer hovered over the treetops around the stronghold, and the air smelled of pine needles and frozen earth.
Wen Ning was rubbing his hands, about to head to the kitchen for some hot water, when he spotted a figure across the clearing.
A thin, wizened old man in a worn padded jacket was squatting on the steps outside the kitchen.
He held a bowl of steaming tea and sipped it with his head lowered, occasionally looking up at the distant peaks, utterly at ease.
Wen Ning took a closer look and froze.
The old man had a weasel's head, with two neatly trimmed tufts of graying whiskers. Though his eyes were narrowed, they still held a sharp gleam.
He was all skin and bones, his padded jacket hanging loosely from his frame as though draped over a bamboo pole.
Wen Ning recognized him.
Wasn't that Old Huang?
One of his shop's regular customers—the Weasel Old Man who had left without saying goodbye.
Wen Ning walked over, crouched beside the steps, and called softly.
"Old Huang?"
The old man's hand paused around his tea bowl, and he turned to look at him.
His narrow eyes first registered surprise, then slowly widened. His mouth fell slightly open, and he even forgot to drink his favorite tea.
"You..."