Maoshan Embers

There is only one person left in the Maoshan Lu family in his generation. Three broken books, half-baked craftsmanship, ten drawings of talismans make up one chapter, and I don't know if I recited the incantation wrongly. Lu Yanzhou opened a fortune-telling stall in Liujia Town, where he spent his whole life counting things day by day. Life in a small town is slow. Autumn and the old locust tree, scattered coins in the enamel jar, red date porridge from Aunt Zhang next door, cigarettes and radio from Lao Zhao of the car repair shop. He leaned against a tree trunk and took a nap, waiting for someone to ask him about a few dollars. I looked at my palms, looked over the autographs, said some auspicious nonsense, and exchanged money to buy half a pound of pork belly to fry. He no longer considered himself a Taoist priest. No one invites Taoist priests these days, and Maoshan has become a scenic spot. The ancestor's things broke all the time, just like people dying every now and then in Liujia Town, it was a normal thing. Until one day, he smelled something he shouldn't have. He convinced himself that it was an illusion. On a new day, go out as usual, continue to tell fortunes, continue to make money, continue to eat and sleep. But he didn't know yet that those things he thought had long since disappeared were slowly waking up at the other end of the old cemetery.