Chapter 212: His Acting is Like a Sharp, Unsheathed Knife

The dim lighting cast shadows on each face, while the ticking of the clock represented the passing of time.

When the hands crossed once again, everything seemed to return to many years ago, and all the dead, carrying their memories and pain, began the fateful journey anew.

"Every butterfly is the ghost of a flower from the past, coming back to find itself."

The reader closed the book in her hands and lethargically watched the person next to her, while leaning on the sofa.

She seldom attended such gatherings; this time, her favorite writer had invited her, which was the sole reason for her presence.

Her eyes stealthily glanced at the Writer sitting in the corner, who, as always, was quiet and silent.

"I can't understand why we came to this rotten place just because of a letter," the student said, arms crossed over his knees, removing his headphones. "I'm not interested in whether ghosts exist or not, if you want to prove it, stay here and prove it yourself."