It was pouring rain the day Master died.
Almost everyone in the county came out. Silently, they joined the procession, holding bright red umbrellas. It was as if they had dressed ten miles of the rainy night in bridal red.
Raindrops the size of beans pelted the red umbrellas, seeming to carry the scent of blood.
I couldn’t understand it. In my memory, Master was just an ordinary old watchman at the psychiatric hospital. Why would so many people come to his funeral with umbrellas, in a procession stretching ten miles?
I was Master’s only grandson. Though we weren’t related by blood, I had no other skills, so I took over his job and became the psychiatric hospital’s new night watchman.
And then…
