The faint rain fell on the grass-covered grave, which was particularly desolate.
The child knelt in front of the grave and sprinkled handfuls of withered yellow paper into the copper basin dipped in kerosene, silently, silently.
Resting in the soil is his mother.
The child still remembers the reluctance in his father's eyes when he passed away and the desolate tears in his mother's death. It's just that there were people who cried with him and shed tears with him before, but now he is the only one left - his only brother also died of depression and illness.
The rain was falling, soaking his clothes. The more intense the black color, the darker it becomes.
The young man stood up and picked up the sword beside him
——A sword that only belongs to knights.
The sword was taller than his body.
This year, he was seven years old. He still didn't know what his future fate would be, but the tears in his eyes seemed to be gone.