The next morning, Song Heping woke up very early.
A thin line of light slipped in through the gap in the curtains, drawing a white stripe across the floor.
He glanced at his watch: six twenty‑three.
This was the biological clock he had trained into himself over many years; no matter how late he went to bed, he would always wake up before six‑thirty the next morning.
He lay in bed and didn't get up right away.
There were footsteps in the hallway—hotel staff, pushing cleaning carts, the wheels rolling over the carpet with a soft rumbling sound.
Far away he could hear cars passing, with the occasional honk.
Outside the window, birds were calling; a few sparrows were squabbling on the air‑conditioner unit, chirping noisily.
Everything was as usual.
He sat up, got out of bed, walked to the window, and pulled the curtains open.
Washington's morning was very quiet.
Sunlight shone on the dome of Congress Hill, tinting the white stone walls a pale gold.
