xiaoChen346
The rain in Wenzhou had a particular taste, a metallic grit that settled on the tongue-the taste of industry, of ozone from a thousand workshops, and of the salt-tinged breath of the Ou River meeting the East China Sea. To ten-year-old Lin Yue, it was the taste of waiting. She sat on the stoop of their narrow, three-story home, watching the rivulets of water trace frantic paths down the cobbled street, trying to map escape routes to a sea she had never seen.