"Sister Qing Mei, it's not the ancestral festival today, why is the second boss suddenly burning paper money?"
In an unremarkable house in the outer city, Yin Minghong was burning paper money in the courtyard. The grayish-white paper money danced into ashes on the tongues of flame, and the rising smoke seemed to depict scenes from another world.
Rong Yao, dressed in laborer's attire and dirt-covered, stood by the door, curiously watching Yin Minghong's actions. He had come to accompany Yin Minghong on a task today, but arriving early, he witnessed this scene, which naturally seemed strange—who burns paper money so early in the morning?
"Minghong is paying respects to our sworn brother." Mu Qingmei sat on the steps at the entrance of the hall, watching the burning fire with a reminiscent expression, "Our brother died three years ago, and today is his death anniversary."
"By the way, what are you doing standing at the door? Come in and have some tea."
