Ding Feiyong wore coarse hemp mourning robes washed nearly white. For three years, he had not changed out of them for a single day.
His broad robe and wide sleeves billowed in the bitter wind like tattered clouds. The hemp was rough and dull, without trim or ornament, without even a single unnecessary button. An old bamboo pin loosely secured his disheveled topknot, and several gray-white strands hung over his forehead, stirring faintly in the wind. Dust from his thousand-mile journey home lay on his shoulders, his hem was soaked through with mud, and yellow clay from the roads of the Shu Region clung to his trouser legs.
Three years of mourning had left him thin and gaunt, his cheekbones jutting high and his eyes sunken, as though he had aged ten years.
Yet his spine remained straight.
He was like an old bamboo stalk that had weathered frost and snow without breaking-bent beneath the weight, yet never snapped. Dust-laden and solemn, he stood amid the swirling snow like a tragic figure who had stepped out of an ancient painting.
He raised his head and looked at the weathered vermilion gates.
The bronze rings on the gates were mottled with rust, and most of the paint on the lintel had peeled away, exposing the gray-white grain beneath. Withered grass and wormwood sprouted from cracks between the stones of the steps, crushed askew beneath the snow.
The entrance to the Chancellor's Residence, once bustling with carriages and horses, was now so deserted that not even a passerby could be seen.
He reached out and rested his hand on the icy bronze ring. As his fingertips touched the rough rust, an indescribable ache welled up inside him.
Three years had passed. The place remained, but the people were no longer the same.