Twilight, like thick black ink, spilled wantonly across the horizon, swallowing the remaining light of day bit by bit. Ye Feng stood quietly in the shadow cast by the Gothic spire. The invitation in his hand turned gently with his movements, the silver-stamped iris crest gleaming with a chilling light under the gas streetlamp.
In his mother's study drawer, invitations like this were piled half a foot high, sealed away in the darkness year after year, completely ignored.
He raised his eyes toward the towering clock tower of the theater, the hour hand moving slowly across the dial. When would the show begin? He looked down at the invitation again; it clearly stated that it started at eight in the evening, but as for the specific schedule of the acts, there was not a single word.
Chapter 48