The silence, once a heavy blanket, now stretched taut, vibrating with an unseen energy. Little Sheng's small, pale finger, a beacon in the gloom, pierced the oppressive air, pointing directly at Liu Fang. The action was devoid of childish innocence, carrying the weight of an ancient judgment instead, a knowing judgment.
A cold, sharp breath hitched in Lin Yue's throat. The unseen presence in the hall seemed to coalesce, drawn by the child's silent accusation, by the precipice of emotion on Liu Fang's face. The coffin, its lid still ajar, seemed to pulse with a faint, hungry thrum. The nameless was listening. And it was waiting for the tears to fall.
