The question, raw and unfiltered, tore through the heavy air, a jagged rip in the fabric of silence. "Who died?"
And then, the world stopped.
Madam Luo's keening wail cut off abruptly, as if a hand had been clapped over her mouth. The rustle of funeral cloth, the faint creak of old wood, the distant, almost imperceptible sounds that had filled the hall – all ceased. The air became utterly, terrifyingly still. The incense smoke, which had been swirling, froze in mid-air, a grey, silent cloud. The flickering flames in the oil lamps held their breath, unwavering.
Absolute silence descended. A silence so profound, so complete, that it felt like a physical pressure, crushing the very breath from their lungs. It was the silence of a world holding its breath, waiting.
All eyes snapped to Wang Jie. His face was frozen in a mask of terror, his hand still half-raised towards the coffin. He had done it. He had asked the forbidden question. He had spoken the unspoken.
