Thirty-seven years after Xiang Liu's death, Elder Li Rong arrived at his grave with a jug of wine.
Seeing Mao Qiu standing beside the cenotaph, he sighed. “With A Liu gone, you've let yourself become such a mess. He'd be furious if he knew.”
At those words, Mao Qiu hurriedly preened his feathers. The bare patch on his back was impossible to miss, and no new feathers had grown there in decades.
Li Rong filled a cup and poured the wine onto the ground.
He filled it again, drank it down, then sat beside Mao Qiu. “Since you left, the old man hasn't had a single visitor. Remember the last time you came by? It was for that love bug...”
