In the farewell hall of the funeral home, the air conditioner was turned on so much that Wu Mo felt chills on the back of his neck as he stood there. He was wearing a black shirt that had been washed white, and the threads at the cuffs were broken, and no one thought to buy him new clothes. The body of his biological father was lying among the wreaths a few steps away. He was wearing a police uniform with a bright cap badge, but Wu Mo couldn't recognize the face - the makeup was too white, so white that he didn't look like a living person or a dead person, like a wax figure.
Groups of people came to express their condolences, most of them were his biological father's former colleagues, in uniform or not. Some had red eyes and patted Wu Mo on the shoulder and said "sorry", while some held Wu Mo's mother's hand and said "Old Wu is a good man". Wu Mo just stood there, like a decoration, like a prop, like an outsider who had nothing to do with any of this.
His mother stood nearby, crying sincerely, her face was covered with snot and tears, and her handkerchief was wringing out water. Standing next to him was a middle-aged man in a suit and leather shoes, with polished leather shoes. He held his mother's elbow with one hand and put his other hand in his trouser pocket. His face had the kind of sad expression reserved for mourning occasions - his brows were slightly frowned, the corners of his mouth were turned down, and his eyes showed just the right amount of compassion. This is the legendary wealthy businessman engaged in logistics. What is his last name? Wu Mo couldn't remember clearly, but his name seemed to be Zheng Shihai.
"Xiao Mo, come here." His mother waved to him, her voice was hoarse from crying, and she spoke like a broken gong.
