After entering the city, Jiang Che led Jiang Ling through familiar streets, heading straight for the long-dilapidated Rag Alley in the southern district.
Returning to this familiar land after three years, Jiang Che was filled with incredibly complex emotions.
The houses on both sides of the road had grown even more dilapidated, their plaster peeling away more severely.
The alley was also filled with more vagrants, their clothes tattered and their faces sallow and gaunt. They huddled in corners, watching passersby with numb, empty eyes.
Jiang Che walked slowly, one step at a time.
Finally, at the end of the familiar lane, he saw the familiar, low-slung, one-story house.
The plaster had peeled away completely, revealing the mottled adobe bricks beneath. More than half the roof tiles were shattered and overgrown with weeds.
On the even more dilapidated wooden door still hung a heavily rusted copper lock.
The door was locked from the outside, meaning no one was living inside.
