The sky was gloomy, with thick clouds hanging low like wrinkles.
The air, mixed with cold air, swirled emptyly on the streets. There were not many pedestrians on the street. In such cold weather, everyone was eager to go home early to warm up a pot of hot tea and have a hot dinner.
Not a speck of the color of the sun. The clouds cover from one mountaintop to that mountaintop, seeming to stretch farther away.
Under the overcast clouds, twilight quietly covered the scene.
A long sword with Mei Rui hanging on it was shaking slightly on the street. The bright red color is like snowy plum blossoms that have not yet bloomed, dotted in the dry air, like a bright color appearing in an ink painting.
A flutter of yellow paper burned to black ashes blew past the street corner, staining Poinsettia's clothes. But he didn't seem to care, and turned a blind eye to it. He raised his head and glanced at the sky, then hurriedly lowered his head and quickened his pace.
What was draped over him was an inconspicuous hemp straw. It was easy to blend into the surrounding environment, and his figure quickly disappeared at the end of the street.
Crossing the bridge, Poinsettia walked in a hurry, intending to visit before the snow came. But as soon as he stepped off the hard wooden pier, his cheeks felt a bit of cold stimulation.
--Snowing.
The peaceful world rises to the sky, a small town in a corner, a courtyard with snowy eaves and mist.
It is inconspicuous among the connected streets and alleys. Only a dead tree standing in the middle of the snow garden, with pieces of faded paper hanging on it, stretched out from the surrounding low wall, looked somewhat distinguishable.
At this moment, the dead branches have been covered with a thin layer of silver grass.
The snowflakes that have been brewing for a long time fluttered and fell softly. The eaves of other people's houses and the white-grey brick floors are all covered with a layer of whirling silver shadow, like a gift from old age.
Some people have already lit up their towering lights, the warm lights are shining, and the streets outside the windows are dappled and soft with halo.
The firefly-like snow particles gently tapped on the outer shell of the coir raincoat, making a continuous "pop" sound.
Poinsettia finally turned into the alley. At this moment, his footsteps were no longer hurried, but were stepping lightly on the thin, crisp snow, as if his heart had calmed down along with the dusk.
The faint light from the lamp cast his shadow vaguely on the wall. Poinsettia exhaled a puff of hot air, wrapped herself in a raincoat, and walked to the old door she had not visited for many years.
After hesitating for a moment, he slowly raised his hand and knocked on the door.
…………
A moment later, in the courtyard with snowy eaves and smoke, the fire was burning red and the charcoal was roasting hot.
"... Guests come for tea and wine on a cold night, and the soup in the bamboo stove is boiling and the fire is just beginning to turn red. It's snowing in front of the window, but it's different when there are plum blossoms."
Thin straws are threaded through the tea boards, and the ends of the hemp ropes have been knotted. An old man covered in white fur picked up the boiling tea soup on the stove and poured the steaming tea into three white porcelain tea cups.
Poinsettia's coir and long sword were now placed at the door. The snow water above has melted all over the ground, evaporating little by little under the baking temperature of the room.
The snow court has a huge window, enough to watch the snow scenery on the eaves. The sky was dark at the moment, and you could hear the snowy wind blowing outside the window, and the silver light flickered slightly on the ground.
The warmth of the fire resisted the chill outside the window. The three of them sat around a table in front of the bed, and there were three cups of hot tea on the table.
"Pingjiang yellow buds still taste the same as before."
Poinsettia lowered her head and glanced at the yellow tea in the cup, which could reflect the wind and frost on her face.
"I haven't been here for many years, and you are getting older." The old man picked up the tea cup and blew the tea leaves on it carefully, seemingly intentionally or unintentionally.
Poinsettia just smiled. He picked up the tea cup, and the delicate porcelain sent a warm current into his palm.
Taking a gentle sip, he put down the cup, smiled and nodded.
"Master, we haven't seen each other for a long time."
The reclusive Buddha, Hanchan Ziaoxue, was an acquaintance of Poinsettia who was both a teacher and a friend.
After observing the expression on Poinsettia's face, Han Chan thought for a moment, smiled and shook his head: "As a monk, fate is the best. But seeing that you have relieved your worries is enough to make the poor monk happy."
After hearing that Master Zhuoxue had already said it clearly, and there was no need to elaborate further, Poinsettia sighed leisurely: "Master's vision is indeed very good."
The person sitting down was silent from the beginning. The man looked about fifty or sixty years old, and his face was also full of wrinkles, but his eyebrows were strange, which made Poinsettia a little concerned.
In the snow-smoked garden, Poinsettia would naturally not use her internal power to detect this person's skills without permission. Although he didn't know the identity of this person, since he was the master's guest, he had no reason to doubt him.
However, although he did not ask, Han Chan had already noticed Poinsettia's attention to this person. So he raised his hand to him calmly: "Oh. This person is a friend of the old monk. His name is Meng Susheng, you can also call him a painting madman."
The person sitting down must have been sitting in the room for a long time, and was already quite sleepy and listless due to the heat. Only when Han Chan mentioned him, he shook his head and stared at the poinsettia with his eyes wide open.
This man named Meng Susheng has a haggard face and looks like a dead tree. Although the clothes are not shabby, they are very messy. When Poinsettia looked at him, she saw that his sleeves were stained with dried ink. It seemed that he was indeed a painter.
"...Hey, hello." Meng Susheng moved his lips as if awake, and revealed an unabashed smile, "I am Meng Susheng, I am very happy and honored to meet you."
Poinsettia felt a little strange. But out of politeness, he still nodded and replied: "I've been a painting fanatic for a long time."
Meng Susheng's legs seemed to be numb from sitting, and he staggered to his feet. Poinsettia saw that his expression was crooked and showed no sign of superiority, and she felt increasingly puzzled by this man.
With a "crash", when Meng Susheng stood up, his sleeves knocked over the fresh cup of tea in front of him. Tea spilled everywhere along the cracks in the bamboo grate, but he didn't care. He scratched the scalp on the back of his head and walked away.
Poinsettia took out a handkerchief and helped Han Chan wipe it. Han Chan just looked back at the back of the painting madman and sighed softly.
"Your special visit...should have other things to do."
Suddenly, Han Chan spoke calmly.
Poinsettia was folding a wet handkerchief when she heard Han Chan's words and paused.
"The old monk is sincerely happy that you have accepted a disciple." Before Poinsettia could say anything, Han Chan had already made the point with a leisurely smile, "If the child needs anything, the old monk will not refuse. "
Poinsettia pondered for a moment. Han Chan was not in a hurry, poured another cup of tea into his empty cup, and then looked out the window.
The curls of hookah quickly blended into the snowy night outside. The last glimmer of light in the sky has fallen into chaos, and the snow on the eaves and misty courtyard has a thin layer hanging on the empty branches.
