When the coffin lid cracked, there was no wind.
Shen Zhaoyue opened her eyes, and her fingertips were still stained with dark red blood. It's not new blood, it seeped into the wood grain three years ago. It dried and wet, wet and dried again, like a sticky film. She moved her fingers, and the joints creaked like rusty door hinges. The top of the head is carved nanmu, and the paint peels off, revealing the gray wood stubble underneath. She remembered this pattern - on the day of her wedding, she dug her nails into the crack in the third beam, trying to leave a mark.
