The ash did not settle quickly. It hung in the air, a suspended grey fog that tasted of ozone and burnt minerals, mingling with the yellow-white confetti of Li Qiang's remains. For several seconds, the world was reduced to a blurred, monochrome haze. Then, the impossible wind died as abruptly as it had arrived, and the debris began to drift downward.
It did not fall in neat piles. It coated everything. The floorboards, the edges of the black lacquered coffin, the hems of the mourners' robes, and the shoes of the remaining players.
Lin Yue stood perfectly still, his gaze tracking a single piece of charred paper as it spiraled down to land precisely on the toe of his shoe.
Beside him, Chen Hao made a small, strangled sound in the back of his throat. He didn't move his feet; he seemed to have forgotten how. He was staring at the floor, which was now a seamless carpet of grey ash and yellow paper.
"The floor," Chen Hao whispered, his voice trembling. "The floor is... it's all ashes."
