The wooden floorboards of the old house creaked softly under Han Meirong's weight. The air in her mother's room was always different from the rest of the house, smelling heavily of dried mugwort, stale incense, and old dust. It was a suffocating space, cluttered with wooden chests and yellowed papers that her mother insisted were sacred.
Meirong stood near the door, clutching the leather book she had just picked up from the floor. Her heart was still beating fast from the discovery she had made. The faded newspaper clipping was still tucked between her fingers, its corners sharp and cold against her skin.
Han Suzy sat on her low mattress, her back hunched. She looked incredibly small, her hands trembling as she sorted through a pile of dried herbs. She did not look up when Meirong entered, but the tension in the room was palpable.
"Did you read the book, Meirong?" Suzy asked, her voice quiet and raspy.
