Han Yue's heart raced, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, she spoke in a soft voice that carried a hint of rebuke, "We've been together for so many years, there's no need for such formality. Just lie down, I know you're not feeling well, and I have no regard for pomp and circumstance. We have our own way of being together, there's no need to care about such worldly etiquettes."
She sat beside the bed and gently covered the man with a quilt.
Mr. Yang had been sick too long and now appeared gaunt and thin. He drew more breaths in than he let out, and his faint breathing was clearly that of a dying man.
"My wife..." he clutched Han Yue's hand, then sighed weakly, calling out her name softly. "Yue'er, after I've gone... forget about me, that would give me peace of mind, don't suffer on my account."
Tears welled in Han Yue's eyes: "What nonsense are you talking about?"
