The meeting just ended, and Jasmine Yale called first.
"Are you coming home for dinner tonight?" she asked, filled with anticipation.
Sylvan Cheney glanced at the pitch-black window; the night had fallen and the street lights were coming on one by one: "No, don't wait for me."
"Got it." Jasmine Yale knew he was busy these days and didn't ask much.
Sylvan Cheney and Charles Mcintosh dined in a restaurant, and Sylvan Cheney drank a bit.
"I'll head to the cemetery later, Qingming Festival is coming soon, I'll see if there's anything that needs purchasing." Sylvan Cheney said lightly, yet his voice carried a hint of unrest.
Charles Mcintosh's heart skipped a beat, and he nodded: "Mm."
In the cemetery, there are not only the graves of Sylvan Cheney's mother, Qiana Childe, but also his father's grave.
Of course, there's also the loss of dozens of lives from the Cheney Family over twenty years ago.
All were vibrant people, yet died overnight.
