Xu Fan savored that familiar voice, his eyes immediately turning red. He pulled open the iron gate, stepped inside, and found his steps unexpectedly heavy.
Inside, the room was very narrow, barely over ten square meters in area. Apart from a wood bed one and a half meters wide, there was a simple folding table, a small plastic stool, and an old wooden wardrobe.
Atop the wardrobe was a memorial tablet, to the left of which was a black and white photograph of Xu Fan's father, Xu Tianlong, with a commanding presence and a middle-aged appearance. On the right was a small incense burner with a cluster of burned-down sticks.
On both sides of the wardrobe, a thin candle burned, providing the only source of light in the room.
A woman in coarse clothing was kneeling on a straw mat, her head bowed in prayer, her hands twirling a string of prayer beads. Her hair, dry and brittle, was casually scattered behind her.