It turns out that when a person is in deepest pain and despair, they cannot shed tears.
Wang Cong was in this state now.
He walked out from the cold of the mortuary, like a walking corpse that had lost its soul, mechanically moving his steps to the ward.
His gaze was hollow, falling woodenly on that hospital bed, where lay his father who had already breathed his last.
The latter's body was cold and stiff, the exposed skin covered with livor mortis, yet there was no smell of decay because the hospital had wrapped him in a layer of transparent cling film.
After all, there were other patients in the room, and the hospital feared they couldn't tolerate his "body odor."
Wang Cong looked down, the father still had a tube stuffed in his nose, the ventilator it was connected to still working tirelessly, the screen recording the total amount of ventilation.
Like a taxi meter, ticking upwards every second.
