My first reaction when I saw Grandmaster was that I was dreaming again.
But after pinching myself hard, I realized I wasn't dreaming.
I walked over and looked. The room was brightly lit, and I could see my own shadow, but I couldn't see Grandmaster's.
He had no shadow.
I suddenly remembered that tonight was Grandmaster's seventh day after death.
He stood at his desk, holding a Chinese brush and writing something on a sheet of Xuan paper.
Beside him lay the work notebook he usually kept records in.
I had read that notebook. There was nothing important recorded in it, so my martial uncles hadn't destroyed it.
It recorded which of my senior brothers and sisters had been sick lately, how high their fevers had been, how far they had recovered, or who had gotten into another fight that day, and which children were particularly naughty and needed extra attention.
Or it noted which stallholder at which market was dishonest, so no one should shop there again.
I walked over to one side and watched from a distance, not daring to disturb Grandmaster.
I wanted to see what he was writing.
At a glance, I saw that Grandmaster's running script flowed smoothly, his strokes bold and vigorous. Though I knew nothing about calligraphy, I still found it pleasing to the eye.
"To debate is to distinguish right from wrong, examine the principles of order and disorder, clarify similarities and differences, and discern the relationship between names and reality."
Grandmaster finished writing and set down the Chinese brush, seemingly admiring his work. Then he nodded in satisfaction. "I heard Zhang Rong and the others say you're getting married after you go back. I've never treated you as an outsider, but I really don't have much to give you. Take this