Chapter 631: Return to Anqing
In recent years, the imperial court had been cracking down more strictly on the unauthorized slaughter of plow oxen. In many places, beef was becoming increasingly hard to find and ever more expensive, but Lingbo remained entirely unaffected.
The Daoist did not go to visit the family that had once helped him deliver a letter. Instead, he found an inn in the city and stayed for the night.
That evening, he ate beef, which was a satisfying meal. The beef in Lingbo was still just as delicious as ever.
Yet as he wandered through the streets and alleys of the small town, he had assumed that back then, he had only passed through in a hurry, and that after thirteen years, his memories would have grown vague.
And while indeed his memories had blurred, what surprised him more was that the town itself had hardly changed at all. As soon as he stepped onto the streets, memories from that time surged up all at once.
The Daoist back then was not the same as he was now, and Lady Calico back then was not the same as she was now.
Back in his room at the inn, the Daoist took out his ox-horn comb, running it distractedly through his hair. Images of who he was back then, and the memories that accompanied them, surged up again and again. It felt as if it had been a long time ago, and yet also like it had just happened not long ago.
It was as if it were only yesterday that he had arrived here with the jujube-red horse and Lady Calico. Unfamiliar with the roads, they had wandered around at dusk, asking for directions until they finally found Ganzao Alley, where they met the merchant named Chen Han. After delivering the letter, Chen Han, in tears, had insisted on hosting him.
But just as night began to fall, there came the sound of hoofbeats outside. It had been a woman, her face wrapped in cloth, tall in stature, riding a short southwestern yellow-maned horse, carrying a long blade with a wooden handle and wooden sheath. She was also there to deliver a letter.
The streets he walked that day were the same ones he'd once walked with an old friend. Even the idle conversation they'd shared back then seemed to echo in his mind.
Ganzao Alley hadn’t changed.
Beneath the old tree at the mouth of the alley, there were still people telling stories at dusk. Children still lay on the tree branches listening, only, the listeners were a new generation.