The night is like a large piece of inkstone, covering the Shuncheng Alley in Bianliang, Tokyo, with darkness.
Su Wantang was wearing coarse clothes. Her shadow was stretched by the oil lamp, and she was wandering in a room full of paper figures.
Her fingers were so nimble. When the bamboo strips and paper were in her hands, they seemed to have souls and slowly turned into human shapes.
"Cough... Cough..."
There was a coughing sound from the back room. The coughing sound was heart-wrenching, like a dull knife, scratching Su Wantang's heart time and time again.
That's her mother. Su's cough has come back again, and this time it's worse than before.
