On the day of my mother's burial, the rain didn't stop. Jiang Yan was wearing a black suit, his cuffs were stained with mud, and the soles of his shoes were still stained with wet soil from the cemetery. He didn't cry or speak. He just stood in front of the grave and looked at the name on the stone tablet that was washed away by the rain. Jiang Wan. Those three words were like nails driven into his bones.
After the funeral, the old house was empty. The servant had been sent away by his father long ago, and he was left alone, carrying his suitcase and climbing the creaky wooden stairs up to the attic. The dust is thick enough to write on. In the corner are piles of mother's old clothes, yellowed photo albums, and a pile of unsent postcards, all of which are graffiti that Jiang Wan drew when she was a child - a crooked bird with the words "Brother, don't leave" written on its wings.
He didn't touch those. He just wanted something to burn.
The bronze mirror is an ancestral one. It has a brass base and is carved with lotus flowers. The surface of the mirror has long been broken, leaving only the back intact. Before she was alive, my mother always combed her hair in front of it when she got up in the morning, saying that this mirror could reflect people's figures clearly and also reflect their hearts. Jiang Yan reached out to move it, and as soon as his fingertips touched the frame, the back of the mirror suddenly loosened, the interlayer cracked, and a small leather book slipped out and fell to the dusty floor.
He knelt down and picked it up.
