As Mr. Will spoke, he trudged along with heavy steps, each one feeling like it carried a thousand pounds of weight; his tall frame cloaked in melancholy, making it clear to anyone that he was a man in mourning.
He was very familiar with this place and, instead of crossing the busy streets, he followed the uneven alleyways uphill.
The slope was steep—looking from the street to the top of the alley, it rose at least forty degrees. Each step Mr. Will took seemed exceptionally laborious; Ye Jian even saw him stumble several times, nearly falling backwards.
Bright red blood trailed all the way, meandering upward with alarming splotches.
Ye Jian lowered her head slightly, silently following behind White Crane, who was walking ahead holding the boy; with Xia Jinyuan behind Mr. Will, and White Crane in the middle, Ye Jian brought up the rear.
After at least half an hour, Mr. Will stopped in front of a decrepit bungalow, instantly recognizable as a dwelling from the lower stratum of Molaban. He didn’t need to ring the doorbell, for there was no doorbell to press; instead, he nudged the iron gate, rust stained so deeply that just wiping it would leave a handful of red oxide.
The iron gate creaked open, and Mr. Will, carrying the increasingly stiff-limbed Abei, walked inside. Xia Jinyuan looked back at his rade, gave a slight nod, and then followed inside.
The bungalow had a narrow, elongated layout so that standing by the entrance, one could see straight down to the door at the other end.
Someone inside heard the noise and rushed out from the dimly lit room. The light was too dim to see clearly, but it appeared to be a middle-aged woman whose figure had gone to seed.
"Mr. Will, is that you?" The middle-aged woman who ran out, perhaps because Mr. Will was holding someone, called out somewhat uncertainly yet respectfully.
Mr. Will replied softly, his voice choked with emotion, causing the middle-aged woman who was about to step forward to suddenly halt. She must have sensed something and now refused to move an inch from where she stood.
In the dark room, the figure that had not moved for a long time, the atmosphere already solidified, oppressive to the point that Ye Jian found it hard to breathe.
This was a woman in her forties, with streaks of white in her hair, a denizen of Molaban. Her hands were rough, her joints swollen—a clear testament of a life filled with hardships.
As she watched Mr. Will approach, her gaze, frozen till now, finally fell upon the person he was holding. Her lips quivered slightly as she asked in the local language, "Who are you holding?"
"Abei, Abei..." Mr. Will began, his suppressed grief flooding the dreary bungalow like a tidal wave, "Abei, he’s already..."
"He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s already dead, isn’t he?" The middle-aged woman’s voice was so faint, as frail as bubbles floating in the air, vanishing upon the slightest touch.
Mr. Will did not answer, his silence was the clearest response.
"How did he die? Can you tell me? What exactly happened, Mr. Will, can you tell me everything?" The trembling middle-aged woman reached out her hands, wanting to hold her son, her child... oh, her child.
She couldn’t manage to lift Abei and, with a voice of continuous woeful sobbing, told Mr. Will to lay Abei on the bed.
Just as the pale-faced Abei was placed on the bed, loud voices, those of two men laughing and talking, came from outside the cramped bungalow. One of the men, who hadn’t even entered yet, shouted from the doorway, his voice bellowing as he made his way inside.
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