The night grew deep and the candles burned low; a flute blew from a night boat on Bian Lake, and the wind blew desolate and bleak.
In the slums, amidst the high and low dilapidated sheds, bright candle flames were rare. Only inside Wei Ying's tattered cloth shed did a woman light the remaining half of a crumbling candle to tend to the man's wounds.
Beside the ragged shed was the sticky mud from yesterday's rain that had yet to dry. A lanky table, propped up by two broken tiles, held a burning candle and a bowl containing two hard steamed buns. A little girl watched obediently from the side, somewhat worried: "Daddy's injury looks so severe. Does it hurt?"
Chapter 74