The Man Without Grace

Autumn had arrived within the blink of an eye. The streets full of drifting fallen leaves and catkins in Hangzhou had combined into a poetic scene.

During autumn, Hangzhou was not as scorching as the cities in the south, with temperatures similar to summer. It was also not as chilly as the places in the north. It had the perfect temperature, with a gentle breeze. It was more like the gentle, elegant final washes of ink or color to a drawing, instead of an omen of the upcoming winter season...

Zhejiang Institute had the same dull-gray color. More fallen leaves were waiting to be cleaned up every day. They were like the clothes that women dumped as the seasons changed, not worth being sentimentally attached to.