In the summer of 1998, the old well at the head of the village suddenly overflowed with black water.
Grandpa took one look, turned pale, and asked me to get the wooden box under the bed.
Inside the box was a cowhide booklet full of symbols - he called it "The Picture of the Yin River".
That night, grandpa walked into the well and never came out again.
Twenty years later, I finally understood the first line of the painting:
"At the crossing of the Yin River, hundreds of ghosts carry coffins. Anyone who sees it will not enter, and three generations will be wiped out."
And I must go in.
