"Splash... Cila..."
In the quiet small street, the sound of the door opening wasn't loud, but if you were close enough, it was particularly piercing.
Lin Haihu jolted awake—he was close enough to the door. Now, he was curled up behind a small diner's sign; the sound of the door opening below pierced directly into his ears. For someone who was just drowsy, it was like a rude awakening.
Along with the sound of the door opening, voices were heard. Listening carefully, it was a dialect from who-knows-where.
Those running small diners in places like this usually aren't locals. People from other regions tend to speak in their native dialects when among themselves, rarely using the standard Mandarin. That familiar provincial accent seems to remind them they are in a foreign land.
It only got lively for a short while before soft music started playing inside the shop. It sounded like a tune often played on TV, probably a saxophone piece named "Going Home."
