Early the next morning, Wang Jianguo opened his eyes. From next door came the sound of Zhao Shuzhuo chopping wood, while Hé Yǔshuǐ hummed a tune as she added fuel to the stove.
Yang Huaiqing was likely back to painting his Haitang tree—these real, grounded sounds acted like a solid foundation, allowing his spirit, which had been drifting in the consciousness dimension, to settle firmly back into the rich soil of Beidahuang.
Wang Jianguo pulled back his quilt, the red cloth lining of his cotton-padded jacket brushing against his skin.
Chapter 744