Qiao Zhizhi fetched the only hot water bottle in the house, boiled a pot of water, handed it to Su Ziceng to keep warm, and started rummaging through the house. In the twenty square meter room, there was a musty smell. Apart from two foldable beds used by Qiao Zhizhi and her eighteen-year-old son for resting, there were only their daily necessities scattered about.
Su Ziceng felt a bitterness rising in her throat, making it difficult for her to speak, "Aunt, how did Uncle Zhi'an die, and why did he suddenly change his mind and go to the United States?"
