The low crackle of burning paper money was a relentless companion. It filled the vast, oppressive silence of the mourning hall, a small, fragile sound battling against the crushing weight of the night.
Each sheet Lin Yue fed into the brazier seemed to carry with it a sliver of his attention, a fragment of his waning focus. The flame, a hungry orange tongue, consumed the yellow paper, turning it to ash that drifted lazily upwards, mingling with the heavy incense smoke.
The heat was stifling, a humid, cloying warmth that clung to their skin, making every breath a conscious effort. It was a physical manifestation of the instance's oppressive grip, a slow, deliberate suffocation. The smoke, thick and acrid, stung Lin Yue's eyes, blurring the edges of the room, making the silent mourners seem even more indistinct, more spectral. They were just shapes, now, dark figures that shifted in the periphery of his vision, never quite still, never quite in focus.
