"": 200,
"": "",
"": "There was a table in the room, with cut sheets of white paper always laid out on it, along with a small balance scale.
Picking up the scale, Zhang Yunling walked to one of the cabinets, opened its door, and carefully pinched out a few dried flowers. They looked like flattened morning glories, yellowish brown and exceptionally thin and brittle, easily torn.
She weighed the medicine.
Just then, a low, murmuring voice sounded.
"There's not much medicine left, not much medicine left, not much medicine left..."
Zhang Yunling closed the cabinet door.
On the other side of the cabinet, in the spot the open door had blocked a moment earlier, a face had appeared.
It was a woman's face, around forty, past her youth but still graceful and attractive.
The woman bore a considerable resemblance to Zhang Yunling.
Her lips moved slightly as she kept muttering that there was not much medicine left.
At that moment, Zhang Yunling's eyes curved into crescents, her smile blooming like a flower.
She called softly, "Mom."
The woman did not answer. She kept murmuring, "There's not much medicine left, not much medicine left, not much medicine left..."
The scene was rather frightening.
As though accustomed to receiving no answer, Zhang Yunling walked to the table and tipped the dried flowers onto one of the sheets of paper.
Then she walked to the second cabinet.
The woman moved over to Zhang Yunling's right, murmuring, "There's not much medicine left, not much medicine left, not much medicine left."
Her eyes were vacant, her stare fixed.
A man silently appeared on Zhang Yunling's left. He was tall and broad, dressed in plain cloth clothes. Though his face was round, his eyes were keen, and he had a small mustache above his mouth.