All around was silence.
Cui Min stared fixedly at the face before the wind lamp.
That face... that face still had the look of memory, yet it was wholly different from the face in his memory.
Jet-black hair had gone salt-and-pepper, smooth skin was covered with wrinkles, and his beard, which he had no idea when had grown long, was piled on his chin, appearing disheveled even when combed.
This face must have had a hard life, bearing the marks of weather and age, a peeled and worn cane supporting the side of his slightly curled legs, his clothes of coarse hemp fabric.
Yet this face seemed to have lived well, his brows and eyes showing no traces of gloom, the voice that had come from behind the felt curtain earlier brimming with joy, and even now at this encounter, his face showed only bewilderment, not anger or resentment.
He stood rooted to the spot.
This was his old friend—
Miao Liangfang.