The lunch had just finished, and there were still some oil stains left in the bowls and dishes on the table, with a few grains of rice sticking to the sides of the bowl.
Grandma started tidying up the bowls and chopsticks, the porcelain bowls clinking and clanging together.
Grandpa was leaning back in a worn-out rattan chair by the door, squinting, and slowly picking his teeth.
When he was done, he packed a bowl of tobacco from his pouch.
Once the cigarette was lit, a thin wisp of smoke lazily escaped from his mouth and nose.
The courtyard was quiet.
A few hens were scratching at the dirt under the wall, clawing the ground with their feet, and pecking one peck at a time.
The yellow dog lay beside the door, resting its head on its front paws, eyes half-closed, ears occasionally twitching to shoo away unseen flies.
A cicada was chirping incessantly in the distant trees, its sound long and drawn out.
