"Ju Ying?!"
At the sight of that scrap of skirt fabric with its familiar weave, the boy returning late felt a thunderous buzzing in his head. In an instant, every drop of blood in his body seemed to rush to his skull. Xing Yan's once-clear eyes filled with crimson veins; the mottled light of the setting sun on the mountain path now looked to him like horrifying stains of bloody tears!
The eight crooked red characters on the cloth before him were like eight sharp swords driven into the deepest recesses of his heart. Shock, anger, regret, dread, humiliation, hatred-all those dark, uneasy feelings surged like a mountain flood through a deathly still pool, churning up years of buried sediment!
Only a moment later, when he heard the things in his hands fall to the ground, did the shocked and furious boy jerk out of his bewildered stupor as though stung by an insect.
He unfolded the cloth he had crushed into a tiny ball in his palm. Enduring the heart-piercing pain, like ants gnawing at his bones, he stared again at the blood-red writing. Then he bent down with difficulty and did his best to grip the fallen grain bag and vegetables in his trembling hands.
"Brother, you're back!"
When he reached the cliff entrance, the lively girl came skipping over as always, cheering as she welcomed her brother.
"Yes, I'm back."
His palm gently stroked her hair, just as it always did. Receiving her brother's affectionate caress, the little girl who had waited so long smiled sweetly.
"Hee!"
Looking at Qiong Rong's radiant smile, the boy seemed suddenly to remember something. He gave a startled exclamation, then spoke to the little girl before him with a gloomy expression.
"Qiong Rong, I forgot something on the front mountain. I