Inside the house, a young man of about fifteen or sixteen years old was squatting in front of the stove, carefully adding firewood. His name was Lin Mo. He was slightly thin and wore a coarse cloth jacket that had been washed white. The cuffs and trousers were patched but kept clean. The firelight reflected on his face, and you could see a pair of exceptionally bright eyes, as if they were hiding stars. But at this moment, the stars contained a bit of calmness that was inconsistent with his age, and a trace of unnoticeable worry.
