The day before New Year's Eve, it snowed in Jiangnan.
Unlike the heavy, goose-feather flakes of Shangjing City, the snow in Jiangnan was gentle. It settled in a thin layer, like a delicate veil of shimmering gauze.
The sky cleared after the snow, leaving the stone steps of the mountain temple strewn with what looked like crushed jade.
Ming Lingyi carried a bamboo basket. Inside were incense and candles, along with two or three plum blossoms she had plucked as she and her mother passed through the Plum Garden on their way up.
Her mother was in the Great Hall fulfilling a vow. Not wanting her mother to worry, Ming Lingyi made an excuse to go for a walk. She deliberately chose a quieter, more secluded hall. The interior was dim, the only light coming from the ever-burning lamp flickering before the downcast eyes of a Guanyin statue. The bronze censer was thick with incense ash—the color of a myriad of wishes, settled and gray.
