"We must observe the 'seventh seven' mourning period," they reasoned. Their family was about to have a baby, a joyous occasion—how could they, clad in heavy mourning attire, stay in their house?
Unable to persuade them, Grandma Sun could do nothing but helplessly return home with Sun Tiezhu and Zou Xing.
The siblings sat quietly in the room, the narrow space cold and empty.
Outside, the heavy snow silently fell, covering everything in white, silent and cold.
"We still have some of yesterday's leftover rice; let's heat it and eat," Pei Qin said, then stood up to go to the kitchen.
San Ya watched her with swollen eyes. With their mother gone, she suddenly felt lost and panicked, clueless about how to live or what to do.
But her calm eldest sister stood like a mountain—unlike them, not weeping hysterically in terror or helplessly throwing a fit—gradually dispelling the panic in their hearts.
Si Ya was the first to follow, starting a fire to warm the meal.
