This old man had suffered far too much in his life

The cemetery lay on a hillside west of the city, built in tiers along the slope. Dense pines and cypresses covered the hillside in orderly rows, lending the place a somber stillness.

The car stopped at the cemetery entrance. Chen Desheng pushed open the door and got out, with Lei Zhen following behind him and Chen Yuan bringing up the rear.

The sun was especially bright that day, glaring off the bluestone path. Step after step stretched upward, their end nowhere in sight.

As the wind blew, the pine branches rustled. The bitter scent of pine resin drifted through the air, mingled with the smell of earth.

Chen Desheng walked slowly, his steps steady.

Lei Zhen followed just behind him to one side, and Chen Yuan followed Lei Zhen. None of them spoke. In the empty cemetery, only their footsteps landed heavily on the bluestone before the sound drifted faintly away.

After about five minutes, Chen Desheng turned onto a narrow path and stopped before a headstone.

The headstone was made of black granite, wiped spotless, with two lines engraved on it:

Here lies my beloved wife, Madam Li of the Chen Family. Here lies my beloved daughter, Chen Jing.

The lettering was gold and shone in the sunlight, every stroke clearly visible.

A bouquet lay before the headstone, ordinary lilies wrapped in clear cellophane. By now, they had withered completely.

The petals had gone limp and brown, drooping to one side without a trace of life.

Chen Desheng crouched down and reached out to wipe the dust from the headstone.

In truth, the headstone was already clean, with hardly any dust at all. Yet he wiped it with painstaking care, from top to bottom, left to right, even running his hand gently over the base.

Chen Desheng had large hands, thick fingers, prominent knuckles, and bulging veins. Yet as he wiped the headstone, his touch could not have been gentler, as though he were handling something that would shatter at a touch or scatter at a breath.

He crouched there in silence for a long while.

The wind lifted his graying hair, then let it fall. The pine branches rustled in wave after wave, like someone sighing softly in the distance.

Standing behind him, Chen Yuan watched his back, his heart growing heavy as he sank into thought.

Only after a long while did Chen Desheng speak. His voice was terribly hoarse, as if something were lodged in his throat.

"This is my wife. This is my daughter." He paused, lightly tracing the letters on the headstone. "They were hacked to death more than thirty years ago."

Chen Yuan remained still, but his brows drew together slightly. His gaze stayed fixed on the faintly stooped figure before the grave.

"I was trying to make something of myself in Deep City back then. I offended someone."

Chen Desheng's voice was very low, as though he were talking to himself—or to the people buried beneath the grave.

"They waited until I was away and broke into my home..."

He said no more. His hand rested on the headstone, his fingers curling slightly.

Chen Desheng turned to glance at Chen Yuan, his eyes already reddening.

The corners of his mouth twitched. It was impossible to tell whether he wanted to smile or cry. He turned back and touched the headstone again, his fingers lingering over the words "beloved wife."

"I have a son, too. He ran away from home back then. It's been almost twenty years, and he's never come back."

Chen Desheng spoke flatly, as though he were not talking about his own son, but casually mentioning a stranger who had nothing to do with him.

Chen Yuan was silent for a moment before asking softly, "Why did he leave?"

"He thought I got his mother and sister killed." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "Maybe... he was right."

Chen Yuan stood where he was, watching Chen Desheng's back.

The old man, who had spent a lifetime enjoying prestige in Deep City, now crouched before a headstone with his shoulders hunched, looking painfully frail.

Something suddenly stirred in Chen Yuan's heart. It was neither sympathy nor pity, just a feeling he could not quite name.

Chen Yuan took a step forward and crouched beside Chen Desheng in front of the headstone.

He gathered the tails of his suit jacket together to keep them from touching the dusty ground, then braced both hands on his knees, bent forward, and pressed his forehead to the bluestone.

Once, twice, three times. He kowtowed respectfully three times, neither too lightly nor too hard. His forehead made a dull sound against the stone, like something tapping softly on the ground.

Chen Desheng froze. He turned to look at Chen Yuan, his mouth slightly open. The redness around his eyes slowly spread, like ink dropped into water, until it colored his whole face.

His lips trembled as though he wanted to say something, but his throat seemed blocked. He could not get a single word out.

Chen Yuan straightened up, looked at the gold lettering on the headstone, and said calmly:

"Sir, if your son won't come back, I'll make these three bows in his place."

The wind swept past again, setting the pine branches rustling loudly.

Standing behind them, Lei Zhen watched Chen Yuan's back and muttered inwardly:

Who would've thought? The kid looks so straightforward, but he knows how to pull a move like this, too. The corners of his mouth shifted, but in the end he said nothing. He turned his head aside and looked toward the distant mountains.

Chen Desheng remained crouched there, staring at Chen Yuan for several seconds. Then he reached out and patted Chen Yuan's shoulder, still without a word.

He slowly stood, his knees giving a sharp crack. At his age, staying crouched for too long took a toll on his body.

Chen Desheng took one last look at the headstone, then turned and headed down the stone path, his steps as measured as before.

The sunlight fell on his graying hair, making the white strands dazzlingly bright.

After only a few steps, Chen Desheng turned again, entering another narrow path.

It was quieter here. The trees grew more densely, blocking out even the sunlight. A thin layer of moss covered the stone path, slippery underfoot.

He stopped before another grave. This one was smaller than the first, with no photograph. Only a few words were engraved on the headstone: Here lies my beloved son, Chen Nianzhi.

There were no dates of birth or death, nor the name of whoever had erected the headstone. It stood bare, like a person standing there all alone.

Another bouquet of withered lilies lay before this headstone.

Chen Desheng stood before the grave without saying a word.

The wind tousled his hair, but he did not raise a hand to smooth it.

Chen Desheng stood quietly for two or three minutes, then turned and left. He did not wipe the headstone, crouch down, or touch the lettering. He did nothing at all, merely stood for a while before leaving.

Following behind him, Chen Yuan glanced at the headstone. Something stirred faintly in his heart, but he thought no more of it and followed Chen Desheng down the hill.

On the drive back, Chen Yuan sat in the front passenger seat while Lei Zhen drove. Chen Desheng leaned back in the rear seat with his eyes closed.

The car was quiet, save for the low rumble of the engine and the air blowing from the vents.

Sunlight streamed through the windows, casting patches of light across the seats.

Chen Yuan glanced at Chen Desheng in the rearview mirror. After hesitating for a long time, he still could not help asking:

"Sir, whose grave was that last one?"

Lei Zhen's grip tightened on the steering wheel. He shot Chen Yuan a fierce glare through the rearview mirror, clearly telling him to keep his mouth shut.

But Chen Desheng opened his eyes, met Chen Yuan's gaze in the rearview mirror, and sighed softly.

"It's all right."

His voice was still a little hoarse. "That was my grandson's grave."

Chen Yuan froze, his mouth hanging open for a long while.

This old man had suffered far too much in his life!

His wife was gone, his daughter was gone, and his grandson was gone, too. His son had left home almost twenty years ago, without a word since.