The Fourth Book by Qia Qia Tongxue

In the middle of the mourning hall, thin streams of red liquid slowly seeped through the gaps in the coffin and dripped to the floor, where they blossomed into vivid red roses. The crimson roses slowly spread. As if guided by some spirit, they did not flow anywhere else, but kept creeping toward the man and woman, as though some magnetic force were drawing them in. A cold wind blew through, and the doors of the mourning hall creaked softly, as if something were trying to squeeze inside. Just then, a spark burst from the censer. It sprang to the portrait in the center of the hall, and the image suddenly glowed with a dim light. It was not bright enough to hurt the eyes, yet there was something indescribably eerie about it. The old man in the portrait looked kindly, but now his eyes seemed to move, and the corners of his mouth slowly curled into a smile, as if he were watching the two people keeping vigil, or asking, “Are you really keeping vigil for me?”