Xu Zhuohua, so young, died just like that.
Everyone who witnessed it felt heartbroken.
Cheng Muyun didn't say anything, but directly released Madam Cheng's hand and walked towards the coffin.
No one in the ancestral hall dared to speak; they all watched Cheng Muyun with trepidation, fearing he might not be able to accept it.
Cheng Muyun's steps seemed to be guided by invisible threads, as he moved slowly and deliberately to the coffin. The deep red lining inside the coffin gleamed with a dark light in the dim light, like congealed blood, carrying an indescribable eeriness.
His gaze fell down, landing on that small body.
The burial shroud was large, making her look even thinner. Several fingers were visible where the sleeves had slipped down, withered like dried branches, no longer soft and warm as when she was curled in his palm.
The mortician ultimately couldn't preserve her final appearance.
The fire was so fierce that it burned everything beyond recognition, beyond even the most exquisite craftsmanship to restore. So, a pure white mask covered all the festering marks—no eyebrows, no eyes, no lips or teeth, just a plain white, like a face silently weeping, exuding an indescribable tragedy amidst the swirling incense smoke.
Cheng Muyun stared at the mask for a moment, then suddenly twitched the corner of his mouth, and a very soft laugh rolled out from his throat, like shards of glass scraping across ice.
The next second, tears burst forth without warning, scalding hot, and splashed onto the edge of the coffin, creating tiny droplets.
He raised his hand, which was wrapped in gauze, and gently touched the withered fingers with his fingertips; they were icy cold to the touch.
"Zhuohua," his voice was hoarse, as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper, "how did you end up lying here?"
The rest of the words were choked up and stuck in his throat.
His hand slowly moved up and stopped on the pure white mask. His fingertips caressed the smooth surface. Suddenly, he chuckled softly, but his tears flowed even more fiercely: "Xu Zhuohua, you look so ugly right now."
He was so ugly that it felt like a piece of his heart had been ripped out, and the pain was so intense that even his breath tasted bloody.
He would rather she were still the same person who would glare at him and angrily call him "Cheng Muyun, you bastard," even if they were arguing, at least... at least she was still alive.
But the person behind the mask will never respond to him again.
Upon hearing these words, Xu Jixin, who was standing outside the ancestral hall, suddenly burst into tears. He reached out to wipe them away, but the more he wiped, the more tears flowed.
Through his blurry vision, Xu Jixin saw a group of people walk in through the door.
Chen Hede arrived with Li Qirui.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
