The old general's sobs, like a rusty knife, sliced through the stagnant air of the activity center.
"Old chief!"
Director Qian was the first to react, rushing to support the wheelchair.
The guard was flustered, wanting to pat the old general's back.
As he extended his hand halfway, he froze.
He did not dare.
Dozens of grey-haired old men all stood up.
Those playing chess toppled the chessboard.
Those playing cards threw away the cards in their hands.
Those listening to the radio turned off the squeaky sounds.
Everyone faced that wall.
Faced the painting.
Faced the one-legged general sitting in a wheelchair, crying like a child.
"My soldiers..."
The old general's body trembled violently.
That wrinkled and age-spotted hand tightly clutched the wooden armrest of the wheelchair.
Veins bulged and twisted.
As if wanting to crush the hardwood.
"Squad leader..."
He lifted his head, and murky tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks.
"Squad leader!"
"Mr. Chen!"
