"The first ritual," Uncle Ren announced, his voice slow and measured, each word a stone dropping into a deep well, "is to prepare the offerings."
His gnarled finger, still extended, trembled slightly as he lowered it. It pointed now not to the ceiling, but to a small, low table set against the wall, almost swallowed by the shadows. On it, a collection of items rested: small, unlit incense sticks, shallow bowls, and stacks of folded paper money.
The air still hung heavy, Madam Luo's soft, unending sobs filling the spaces between Uncle Ren's words, a constant, mournful hum.
"The offerings must be prepared with respect," Uncle Ren continued, his gaze drifting from the table to the players, then back again. His eyes, dark and depthless, rarely blinked. "They are for the departed. For the journey."
