After the coffin was reburied, Wei Zhao, disregarding his injuries, knelt before the tombstone, pressing his face against it, trying to find a trace of the girl's warmth from the stone.
In his hollow eye sockets, the fire of despair burned, turning his internal organs to ashes.
"In this life of mine, I've killed too many."
He said softly.
"Now... I've only buried you all."
His soul, too, was buried with them that day.
The scene shifted again.
Fu Meng lay at the doorway, no longer with his usual spirit, silently accompanying him.
Even the noisy blue crows were quiet, creating no noise.
Inside the room, a silence akin to death prevailed.
Unsure of how much time had passed.
Without sorrow or joy, Wei Zhao rose, took the box from beside the pillow with his right hand, and stepped out with a drooping, empty left sleeve. He bumped into the approaching Xiao Huaian.
Xiao Huaian, observing his expression, carefully asked, "Are you going out?"
Wei Zhao remained silent.
