In the seventeenth year of the Republic of China, Jingzhe occurred.
Shen Yanzhi knelt on the futon in the mourning hall, his knees already numb. Sandalwood mixed with the smell of blood lingered on the tip of his nose, and the ever-burning lamp on the altar table was shaken violently by the draft, casting his shadow on the mottled vermillion lacquer pillars, like a butterfly with broken wings.
"Master, it's time to be laid to rest." The old butler Fu Bo's voice was thicker than candle tears. When his skinny hand put on Shen Yanzhi's shoulder, his knuckles shook like dead leaves in the autumn wind.
Shen Yanzhi did not look back. His eyes were fixed on the remains of his father Shen Jingzhi - the face that always had a gentle smile was so swollen that the outline could not be discerned. There was black and purple blood scab in the hole of his left eye, and his right hand was curled up unnaturally, as if he was holding something important before his death.
At midnight three days ago, a phone call from the patrol room broke the tranquility of Shen's mansion. When Shen Yanzhi rushed home from the dance in the French Concession, the third courtyard was already surrounded by police cordons. The patrolman in black uniforms left messy footprints in the pool of blood, the peep show in my mother's room was shattered into cobwebs, and my sister's favorite white magnolia was dyed dark brown. Twenty-one people, from the accountant to the janitor Lao Zhang, were all spared.
