But today, Sister Lian clearly seemed different again, reverting to her previously somber demeanor, and... she wore black clothes.
"When I was still a cop, people always asked me why I always wore formal attire, wasn't it tiring? They all got one thing wrong," Sister said, "What I've been wearing has always been mourning clothes."
"Mourning clothes, whose?" Xu Xiangyang pretended not to understand, "Did someone from the village pass away?"
Li Qinglian did not speak, but pointed in front of her.
He saw, in front of Sister Lian, a gold-colored incense burner with a blackened casing, and the ashes left from burnt paper money.
In two photographs, a gentle-smiling man and woman.
Xu Xiangyang couldn't recognize them, but his instincts already told him the answer.
Thinking carefully, the current me is only a few years away from their age, Xu Xiangyang said to himself, while their time had already prematurely frozen at this moment.
It's like they're strangers now...
