Clouds were slowly but surely crowding the sky, masking the afternoon light, and bringing about a piercing chill.
The grave was suitably cleaned and offerings placed. Incense was burned and Zhang Wang wasn't really sure what he wanted to say to his dad this year around. Each time he visited he liked to think he got a little more used to life in this world but each time he stood before his father's grave words got stuck in his throat. He wanted to talk about the mundane yet his heart was heavy with emotions still distant.
Sikong Ren was his usual silent self, his visage masking the emotions that encouraged him to return year after year after year. Someone once joked that he was closer to Zhang Wang's father than his own, and that person got personal with a rage that Sikong Ren rarely displayed.
