Every "thank you" was polite yet distant.
There were no tears, no entanglements, just calm and self-containment—exactly what he had hoped to see.
After some thought, Jiang Kechu took an envelope from his pocket, the envelope was bulging.
"Here is some condolence money donated by the military, a total of five thousand yuan. Take it."
Her father, Wan Shiguo, had passed away eight years ago. It was comforting yet puzzling for Wan Chu'er that the military still remembered him.
Eight years isn't long, yet isn't short, either.
Eight years was enough to replace soldiers four times over. And considering Jiang Kechu's age, how close could he have been to Wan Shiguo?
Or rather, what was the nature of their relationship that made Jiang Kechu consistently look after Wan Shiguo's wife and daughter?
Wan Chu'er eyed the envelope in front of her but did not reach out. A thought flashed through her mind, and she eventually spoke up: "May I ask a question?"
