Lin Page 37 quite unusual. The master finishes his hookah and pours himself some fresh tea. This weather reminds him of an old friend he has lost touch with, and he reminds himself that he must attempt to write to him. The postal service is not to be trusted, but at least he must make the attempt, and the rest is up to fate. Maybe that is the problem: he believes in fate and his wife does not. Strange how they were ever married in the first place, with such a fundamental difference in philosophy. The master sighs: Poor woman. She must have known what would happen … Unexpectedly, the stranger says: I don't recognize anything around here. Ah, the master thinks. Yes, that's it -- this man is angry that this town has become what it is, a delirious merging of high-rise apartments and sickly alleys, razed ground and sparkling billboards. This is something he can well understand. Yes, it's awful isn't it? he says. In the old days you always knew where to -- Do you know of the village just over the Jade Mountain? The stranger's voice is slightly slurred from drink. The master nods, eager to be pulled into a conversation, and away from his thoughts. I grew up in that area. Wonderful back then, all the fields and streams. Are you from there? A long time ago, the man says. When there were estates outside of town. Before electricity, before the cars.