After finishing writing, he put down the pen, accepted the silver handed over by the manager, did not glance at Chu Zheng again, and turned to leave through the side door he came from.
In the sky, at some unknown time, tiny snowflakes began to drift again, dense and pervasive, carrying a bone-chilling cold.
Instinctively, Chu Zheng raised his head, watching the gradually departing hunched figure disappear into the wind and snow outside the door.
Inside his heart, there was an inexplicable emptiness.
This old man, who had taken him very far, who had bought him from the human market, left just like that.
Once again, he became alone.
He quietly withdrew his gaze, lowered his head again, and shrank himself into the tattered cotton clothes, resisting the cold, isolating everything unfamiliar around him.
Chu Zheng settled down in the side courtyard of the Song Residence.
