The market was busier than usual that morning. The air smelled of steamed buns and roasted chestnuts, of sweet syrup dripping from hawthorn sticks.
Fu Ling adjusted the woven basket on his arm as they made their way down the narrow street, the steady rhythm of chatter and barter blending with the soft slap of rainwater beneath passing carts.
Wei Tingche walked beside him, a folded oil-paper umbrella resting against his shoulder. It wasn't raining yet, but the clouds above hinted at it.
They had come to buy lamp oil and new fabric for the window curtains. Their old ones had faded to a pale brown after too many washes. Wei Tingche said they made the room look like a monk's cell. Fu Ling had laughed and agreed to replace them.
It was supposed to be an ordinary day. Until they heard the sound.
