On the night I married my sister, the groom lifted his hijab and pinched my veins with his fingertips - he recognized the wrong person.
But when I pulled out the plum blossom handkerchief sewn by my mother from my flesh, I discovered that the key under his pillow, the bloody words in the soup, and the spell in the lamp were all the truth that my mother had buried with her life.
He hated me for being like her, but he didn't know that I was the one she really wanted to save. Now that the veil is alive, the cellar is opened, and my mother is not dead, I will personally burn this marriage as a memorial ceremony for her.
