The house was small and extremely cheerful about it.
It sat at the edge of the river path like it had grown there, vines climbing one wall, flowers in pots along the window ledge, a string of small painted stones hanging from the doorframe that clicked together in the breeze. Smoke rose from the chimney in a thin, contented thread.
Mò Lǎo knocked twice and stepped back.
For approximately one second, nothing happened.
Then the door opened and the world became considerably louder.
"MÒ LǍO! You were supposed to visit three weeks ago, I made soup, I had to eat it myself, do you know how much soup that is for one person and a toddler—" The woman stopped.
She looked at Mò Lǎo.
She looked at Zhāo Yàn.
She looked at Han Shān.
