Rusty Bones Create Evil

Lin Fu's fingertips crushed the dried blood spirit grass, and the thin thorns dug into the scars on his palms. Blood droplets mixed with the smell of rust dripped on the table, making the bone flute he picked up three years ago feel slightly hot. The phalange flute left behind by his mother always made a "squeaking" sound on rainy nights, like the turning of an old door hinge, and like someone gently asking the truth about the blood sacrifice fifty years ago in the blood moss lines of his left eye.