The early spring rain fell on the simple cemetery in the suburbs, and the air was filled with the smell of damp earth and inferior incense candles.
Shen Qingci handed the last wad of crumpled cash to the owner of the funeral parlor, watched him count it, and issued a thin receipt.
His pocket was completely empty, with only twenty-three and a half dollars left. The coins touched his thighs, cold and clear.
The tombstone is newly erected, the simplest granite, with the mother's name engraved on it.
There are no photos, no embellishments other than the dates of birth and death, just like her silent and repressed life.
Shen Qingci stood in front of the monument, the rain dripping down the shoulder line of her cheap black suit, the fabric stuck to her skin, and the chill was biting.
She didn't cry. Her tears had already dried up in the nights after her mother was diagnosed, when she had no way to ask for help and had to collect money from everywhere.
Now, all that's left is a hollowed-out body and a turbid air that is tightly held in his chest and he doesn't know where to go.
It was at this time that footsteps and cursing voices came.
"My wife - why did you just leave like that! How can I live alone if I am left alone!" A artificial howl sounded.
Shen Qingci's back stiffened and he did not look back.
