Inside the house, a boy of about fifteen or sixteen crouched in front of the stove, carefully feeding it firewood. His name was Lin Mo. He was a little thin, dressed in a coarse shirt that had been washed until it was faded, with patches at the cuffs and trouser hems, yet everything was neat and clean. Firelight fell across his face, revealing a pair of unusually bright eyes, as if they held the stars. But at that moment, those stars carried a solemnity beyond his years, along with a hint of worry that was hard to detect.
