Sunlight filtered through the gaps in bamboo leaves, scattering mottled shadows across the ground.
The shadows on the ground were indistinct. Mu Lianxiao leaned against the bamboo, lifting his head to look up, and saw that the evergreen bamboo leaves remained a vibrant green even in winter.
Were it not for the cold wind blowing on his body and the barely warm sunshine, the bamboo forest's season might have caused Mu Lianxiao a moment of confusion.
He recalled the scenes each time he visited the bamboo forest over the years.
Sometimes in spring, sometimes in autumn.
Mu Tang always stood silently in front of the dilapidated house. No matter what Mu Lianxiao asked, he refused to utter a word.
But now, Mu Lianxiao finally heard the answer he sought from Mu Tang's mouth, yet didn't expect the answer to be so heavy.
For nearly ten years, Mu Tang carried such a secret in ascetic practice; perhaps his passing was a kind of liberation for him.
