My hands are shaking.
The flames from the paper money flew wildly in the night wind and burned my fingers, but I didn't hide. A little pain is good, a little pain can make me sure that I am still alive and have not been dragged into the river by those things.
Under the stone bridge, the river water was as black as ink, with no reflection at all. I squatted on the bridge, threw the last piece of paper money into the iron basin, and watched it curl, turn black, and turn into ashes. Every year on the eve of the Hungry Ghost Festival, it was burned. When grandma was alive, she burned it. After she died, it was my turn.
This is the rule
