Watching him grow thinner by the day, Qing Yi felt both scared and helpless.
"Xiaohan, how about I make you a bowl of noodles?"
Qing Yi crouched by the bedside, his large hand stroking the drunkard's head, watching him, a puppet-like shell without a soul, as his heart bled.
He thought the drunkard wouldn't respond, but unexpectedly, the drunkard slowly placed his hand over his own chest, gazing into the air, and murmuring:
"...Shh, don't make a sound, listen."
His voice was very soft, not just because his body was weak and powerless, but as if he feared startling something.
Qing Yi was taken aback, "…What?"
"Brother, he's calling me."
"...Who?" Qing Yi's voice trembled, eyes filled with fear.
The hand on the drunkard's cold forehead stiffened.
"He's calling me..." He continued to stare into the air, his eyes hollow.
"Xiaohan, don't scare me. What's wrong? What are you talking about?"
"Brother, is there roast chicken? I want to eat roast chicken," he suddenly asked.
