Chen Ji sat by a square table in the main room, his upper body bare, allowing the little monk to help him remove the layers of gray cloth wrapped around him.
A basin of steaming hot water was placed on the table, and the room was closed off from windows and doors, with the afternoon sunlight streaming through the paper windows, illuminating the rising steam.
As the little monk removed the cloth, he saw the wounds beneath and his fingers trembled slightly: "Doesn't it hurt, benefactor?"
Chen Ji did not respond.
The little monk threw the gray cloth on the ground, wrung out a cloth from the basin of hot water, and began to clean Chen Ji's wounds: "Benefactor, what is love?"
Chen Ji calmly asked back: "You can see the depths of people's hearts, yet you don't know what love is?"
The little monk said helplessly: "Because I can't see my own heart."
Chen Ji jokingly said: "To be able to see everyone's heart yet not understand your own, is indeed a form of fate's jest."
