My Mother Has Been Making This Bowl of Soup for Thirty Years

On the day my wife jumped off the building, my mother was humming a tune and making soup in the kitchen. The siren downstairs did not disturb her elegance. She stirred the spoon with her skinny hand, and there was an indescribable excitement in her cloudy eyes. She filled a bowl and handed it to me, and said kindly: "Son, the lost star is finally dead. Drink it while it's hot to replenish your body. This is the old soup that my mother has been cooking for thirty years." I looked at the bowl of broth with a strange red light, and my stomach turned. Because just five minutes ago, I clicked on the last surveillance video that my wife sent me before she died. At that moment, I understood why my wife would rather jump than take another sip of this "big tonic" soup. This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.