The flame of the pine oil lamp crackled and a small cloud of sparks exploded.
I put down the torn volume of "Burial Place Notes" in my hand and rubbed my sore eyes.
There was air leakage from all sides of the wake shed, and the cold air carried the earthy smell of the cemetery and penetrated into the bones without mercy.
Organizing these notes left by my late father is the only thing I can do in this endless loneliness.
The window lattice suddenly made a soft "creak" sound, and a black shadow rolled in quickly, as light as a night owl.
I tensed up instantly and subconsciously reached for the boning knife that had been used for many years under the table.
The person who came was a woman, dressed in neat night clothes, with a black scarf covering her face, revealing only a pair of eyes that were astonishingly bright under the dim light.
She seemed to be injured, covering her left arm, breathing a little quickly, and her chest was heaving.
She didn't look at me, her eyes quickly swept across this simple shack with only a table, a bed and a coffin, with a look of anxiety in her eyes.
"Someone is chasing me outside, I'm using you to hide." Her voice was low, crisp and clear with a hint of unquestionable command.
