The Sick and Weak Tea Girl Went Crazy

Deep in the dry well, dust accumulates like a burial. Su Jinli did not scream when she fell. She just curled up to protect her chest, gritted her teeth the moment her back hit the pile of rotten leaves, and swallowed the muffled moan back to her heart. The aperture above the head suddenly shrank, leaving only a gray hole in the sky, reflecting the cracks in the cracked clouds. The walls of the well are cracked and the moss is thick and slippery, like a piece of moldy skin sticking to the stone, exuding a damp and cold air. She didn't move and listened first. The wind cut diagonally down from the well mouth, passing over the rugged rock edges, making a whining whistle. A crow flapped its wings in the distance, one after another. There are no footsteps of living people, no echo of water droplets - this is a dead place, at the edge of the mass graves where even the underground water veins have long been dried up, where anonymous corpses, lowly slaves, commoners, sick and weak people are buried. She knew this place. When she was a child, her mother once said: Thirty miles outside the old tomb of the Su family, if no monument is erected, no paper is burned, no vegetation grows, and the soul cannot rest. But she's still alive.