It was the evening after Zhang Fei's (張飛) first complaint had been laid down in the back yard.

The three men sat side by side upon a stone. Liu Bei (劉備) in the middle, Guan Yu (關羽) on the left, Zhang Fei on the right. The sun had leaned halfway to the west. Three shadows lay stretched in a single line upon the western wall. Their heights differed, but the angle of the sun drew the three of them into one line.

No one spoke first. Only, the rhythm in which they drew breath was not the same as yesterday's. When Liu Bei inhaled, Guan Yu exhaled. Zhang Fei's breath came in between. Three rhythms carried on as one melody.

"Yide."

Liu Bei spoke first. Zhang Fei turned his head.

"Yes, Brother."

"Thanks to your one line yesterday, our three shadows stretch in one line this evening. That is my discovery for tonight."

Zhang Fei was long silent. Then he bowed his head.

"Brother. Until yesterday I stood three paces behind you. This evening I sit on your right. The seat three paces behind, and the seat on the right, look like one seat, yet they are two. I do not yet know which is the proper one."

"Yide. They are two different seats. Only, this evening, the seat on the right was the one I needed more. When tomorrow morning comes, you may return to your place three paces behind, and that is good. But tonight, sit on my right."

The corner of Zhang Fei's right eye reddened.

"Yunchang."

Liu Bei turned next toward the left. Guan Yu lowered his head slightly.

"You sit tonight on the left. Until yesterday, the days when you were on my right were more. This left-hand seat is unfamiliar to me. But the unfamiliar seat may, rather, be the right one for the preparation of the third stride."

Guan Yu was long silent. Then he quietly answered.

"Brother. That Yide sits on your right and I on the left tonight is because of the angle of this evening's sun. When tomorrow's sun rises in the east, our three seats will shift again. Only, the fact of the three of us sitting in one line will remain as it is tonight."

Liu Bei smiled. Guan Yu's line was not a joke. He was saying, through the figure of the day's sun-angle, that even across changes of position the alignment of three men in one line does not alter.

That evening, the three were long silent. They only sat together upon the stone. When the sun had gone fully behind the western wall, the three shadows vanished together into the dark.

Even after the shadows had gone, none of them rose. Rather, the place where the shadows had vanished made the single-line alignment of the three men clearer. Their breathing was now almost identical. The gap between the end of the inhalation and the beginning of the exhalation opened and closed at the same interval among the three.

Liu Bei rose first. Guan Yu rose second. Zhang Fei rose third. The three men passed through the small side gate of the back yard into the magistrate's office. The one who shut the gate was Zhang Fei. He who tonight had sat on the right came in last, shutting the gate.

Liu Bei returned to his room and sat before his desk. He read once more the eight characters beside the third red dot on the map. 新春之朝, 第三步發. Beside them he added one further line.

At the seat where, this evening, right and left stood in one line, the third stride begins.

That night, Zhang Fei's spear-shaft leaned beside Guan Yu's Green Dragon Blade in the corner of a room. It was the first time in six years the two weapons had stood upright side by side. Between them lay a small empty space. That space was where, tomorrow morning, the saddle of Liu Bei's Dilu would come to lean.

The alignment of three men in one line in the back yard had passed into the alignment of three weapons in one line in the corner of a room. Not tomorrow morning, but on some morning of the new spring, the three weapons, the three men, and the three horses would go down south together. That southern direction would, at the same angle as this evening's sun upon the western wall, stretch them into one line. The sun, travelling its long arc across many walls in between, was rehearsing for them what they would one day do together before a far larger room. Of the larger room, they did not yet know. The rehearsal, they were in the middle of, nightly, without knowing. That not-knowing, it turned out, was precisely what preserved it from spoiling.

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