Through the tiny window of the Golden House, she seemed to see a woman leaning slightly, fingers playing with a rouge jade clasp, her eyes reflecting the black-edged red tiles washed by the gentle rain outside the Eave House, mixed with smoke and dust, the falling drops on the stone slab forming a crisp clarity, the water flowing through the slab's crevices outlining the myriad mundane scenes of the Human World between the veins of Heaven and Earth.
Everyone walked slowly upon it, except for that young man.
This woman overlooked the street under the Bridge outside the house, where the young man appeared scruffy and frail.
Red lips and white teeth, tinged with some filth, those eyes, vacant, yet also dazed, like a blank sheet of paper washed of all memories and desires.
She looked at him, saw his eyes.
Within his eyes, there was her.
A solitary, forsaken young man with nothing to his name gazed upon a famous Courtesan of the brothel, capturing her image in his eyes.
