The stone bridges and pavilions of the Jiangnan water towns transformed into tombstones and grave mounds, the winding stone paths turned rough and uneven, and the beautiful scenery of flowers and trees withered into decayed funeral banners and torn paper.
On the left was a porter dressed in red, and on the right was a musician dressed in white; both stripped off their clothes, transforming into white bones and powder, whipped up by a ghostly wind, and each screaming piercingly as they burrowed into the grave mounds meant for burial.
The rotting curtains left only the wooden frame of the wedding sedan which quietly rested at the entrance of the tomb passage.
Through the sedan window, a faint silhouette of a young man could be seen tightly embracing a corpse that had only the head remaining uncorrupted, as if he was asleep.
But in this desolate grave without a village in front or a shop behind, could Xu Qing truly sleep?
It was certainly impossible.
