"Mr. Lu Xinglan," her mouth opened and closed, weakly calling out, "Lu Xinglan..."
That was nine years ago in the winter.
The wind that night was fierce, howling loudly.
The woman's voice was panicky, fragmented by the wind, "Is she, is she dead?"
The headlights of the truck were shattered, and a girl lay on the ground, blood seeping from her dark hair.
A rough hand pressed against the girl's carotid artery. "She's still breathing."
The man's voice was hoarse and coarse, as if smoked, as though something was lodged in his throat. His eyebrow was split open, blood was all over his face.
This man and woman were Chen Qingshan and Tan Xiuqing nine years ago.
Tan Xiuqing, being a woman, was all flustered, "What, what, what do we do?" She looked at her husband, then around to see if anyone was there, "Should we... bury her?"
In front of the Chen Family's house was a road, with mountains on both sides, and only a sparse few households.
