Cui Mingyue was three years old when the flood washed away Cuijia Village.
She survived. Holding a jade ring engraved with the word "righteousness", he huddled behind the Buddha statue in the ruined temple, waiting for the guard An Qi sent by his grandmother to arrive. But surviving is just the beginning.
The deep courtyard of my grandfather's Wang family hides secrets deeper than the flood. The old whip marks on her back, the burnt blue cloth on the locust tree, the red mud footprints under the wall, the Yizimen token, a buried well, three white beads threaded with red threads, and the living dead tattooed on the collarbone - everything points to the same line: Cuijia Village is not a natural disaster, but a man-made disaster. Her mother wasn't dead, she was just hidden.
A three-year-old child can see all the lies in the adult world with one pair of eyes.
She doesn't cry. She would point to the red mud and say it was on her uncle's body, squat under the flower stand and say that the man in red boots threw something into the well, and draw three circles stacked on top of each other on the dirt and say this was a door. Grandma clutched the jade ring and cried silently. Her uncle hugged her and got on his horse to go south to find the person. Every time An Qi's knife was unsheathed, he was one inch closer to the truth.
The bright moon is the smallest piece in the whole chess game. But she held on to the most critical thread.
