February in London is usually dry and less rainy, with the coldness of winter lingering while the warmth of spring has yet to arrive.
From last night, the sparse rain began to fall, continuing unabated until noon. It was as if God was weeping, casting everyone into silent sorrow.
In the graveyard, rows of raised black umbrellas, the damp air carrying a heavy mood, the priest's voice echoing in the ear:
"Death is not something to be mourned, for the soul has attained..."
Burial, memorial, mourning—each step proceeded in the hope that the deceased would find peace, yet unable to halt the living's grief.
"Such a foolish child."
Shen Yu looked at the young photo of Shen Jun on the gravestone, his cool features marked with sadness, his voice tinged with discomfort.
