Before the funeral, everything felt like a blur. Time had folded into itself—nothing moved forward, and yet everything was happening too quickly.
It was her grandmother who called the Feng Shui master.
Lu Qingyan had overheard the hushed conversations in the living room, the whispered belief that choosing the right day and hour might bring peace to the soul of the departed.
The Feng Shui master had studied the almanac and the direction of the winds, his fingers moving over the chart with practiced precision. He eventually settled on an auspicious date and time for the burial—something about aligning heaven and earth for a smooth journey to the afterlife.
Her family didn't protest.
In times like this, they grasped for meaning in anything they could.
Three days of visitation were arranged before the burial.
Their home transformed into a place of mourning.
A white banner hung outside the gate, fluttering solemnly with the wind.
Inside, the air was thick with the scent of incense and grief.
Lu Qingyan wore a traditional white mourning robe—plain, coarse, and heavy. White, the color of death in their culture.
Her long black hair was tied back, and a single white flower was tucked above her ear. It wasn't just for tradition—it was for him. White chrysanthemums, too, were everywhere—she had made sure of it. They symbolized grief, purity, and farewell.
Her grandmother came dressed in red, her eyes dull with sorrow. It was an old custom: when a grandchild died before the elders, the elders wore red to ward off misfortune. A cruel contradiction. Red, the color of joy, now clashed against the sea of white. It was jarring, but no one questioned it.
On the first night, Lu Qingyan made a decision.
"I'll stay with him tonight," she said quietly, firmly. Her voice trembled, but her eyes did not.
Her parents looked at her—hesitating—but in the end, they said nothing. They stayed too.
That night, she sat by her brother's coffin, legs tucked under her as she watched the flickering glow of the candles.
She kept the incense burning, replacing each stick before it died out. The joss paper—spirit money—crackled and curled into ash as she fed it to the flames one by one.
"Buy something nice up there, okay?" she whispered as she watched it burn. "Don't be stingy like before."
She tried to smile.
It didn't last.
The funeral hall filled with wreaths and bouquets—some sent from people she didn't even recognize. But the ones that mattered, she knew. His friends came, each carrying flowers, photos, quiet tears.
On the first day, his high school classmates showed up in a line. Some stared at the ground, others cried openly. They brought letters, small tokens.
Someone placed a basketball keychain inside the offering tray. Another left a drawing.
Lu Qingyan didn't ask who drew it. She simply placed it near his portrait.
On the second day, his college classmates arrived. They were older, quieter. Many bowed deeply to her parents, and then to her.
She caught snippets of conversation—words like shock, he was always smiling, never thought...
But what moved her most was on every single day, his childhood friends came.
All of them.
They didn't just come for one day out of obligation. They came every day, straight for seven days.
They brought memories and laughter and silence. They brought tears.
Lu Qingyan smiled bitterly as she arranged another chrysanthemum.
"I hope you knew," she whispered, her fingers brushing a petal, "that you were loved this much."
People kept coming.
And with them came the pitying glances.
The awkward condolences.
"I'm sorry for your loss."
"He was such a bright soul."
"My deepest sympathy."
Words that meant well. But none of them could touch the gaping hole inside her.
Each phrase felt like a pin in her skin.
Each nod of sympathy only made it more real.
He was gone.
He was really gone.
And every time someone said, "Be strong," she wanted to scream.
Because she had been strong. Too strong. Seven days of nodding, bowing, thanking them with dry eyes and tight smiles.
She didn't want strength.
She wanted her brother.
And then came the burial.
The sky was gray, as if the heavens themselves were mourning.
The air was damp and thick. Lu Qingyan wore white again, her robe even heavier with rain and heartbreak.
She stood beside the casket as it was slowly lowered into the earth.
There were no more incense sticks to hold, no more joss paper to burn.
There was only the finality of dirt.
And that was when she broke.
The tears didn't come quietly this time.
She sobbed—loud, guttural, uncontrollable sobs that tore from her throat like she had been holding them in for years, not days.
Her knees gave out, and she fell to the ground, clutching her robe as if it would keep her from falling apart completely.
Her mother knelt beside her, holding her.
Her father turned away, his face hidden behind his sleeve.
"I miss you," she wept, voice cracking. "I miss you so much, big brother… I don't know how to live without you…"
Her cries echoed through the cemetery.
There was no shame in them.
No silence left.
She had kept herself together for seven days—for her family, for the guests, for the traditions.
But now… now she let herself grieve.
And as the final shovel of earth covered his grave, Lu Qingyan knew one thing:
The world had lost its brightest light.
And she had lost her best friend.