There is a rule in our village: whenever a child is born, a coffin must be buried in the back hill.
The red and white events are always done at the same time. The villagers say this is the ancestral motto of Fu Ze's descendants.
Until my son who was studying in college in the city died unexpectedly, there was an empty coffin in the ancestral grave.
The crazy paper man stuck up the window late at night and peered in, and the coffin with the name of the deceased child on it knocked on the door every night.
When I finally dug up the forbidden cemetery in the back mountain, what climbed out of the rotting coffin was my son who was supposed to be buried in the city.
His fingertips were embedded in the wet mud of the cemetery, and he smiled solemnly at me: "Mom, it's your turn for the village's centenary banquet..."
