It was past eight in the morning at Qingshan Temple. The weather was cold and overcast, and fine, hairlike rain slanted through the chilly wind, settling on people's collars and shoulders.
A scattering of visitors stood on the steps before the Buddhist hall, their gazes all fixed on the same spot.
Surprised or taken aback, they whispered among themselves, but gradually, those voices faded.
They simply stood to one side and watched quietly. No one went forward to disturb him.
Every gaze rested on a young man at the foot of the steps.
He was tall and slender, extraordinarily handsome, and wore an impeccably tailored, expensive suit and overcoat. An air of refinement surrounded him; he was clearly wealthy or distinguished.
But now his face looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot, as though he had not rested for days.
An unrelenting sorrow lingered in his features, and there was even despair in his deep eyes.
Fine rain settled on his hair and collar as he climbed the steps. One, two, three...
He pressed his palms together, closed his weary eyes, and bowed devoutly toward the Buddhist hall.
Then he knelt on the steps, braced his hands against the ground, bent forward, and touched his forehead to the stone.
Then he rose, climbed another three steps, bowed, knelt, and touched his forehead to the ground...
One prostration every three steps.
In silence, he repeated the motion over and over, paying no heed to the gazes around him. Seemingly tireless, he focused only on drawing closer to the Buddhist hall.
At first, the watching visitors had merely been curious about the spectacle, or drawn by the man's striking appearance.
But gradually, they were all moved.
When someone placed his hopes in the gods, perhaps he truly had no other recourse.
What was he