bayedsolid Chapter 977 Hairpin
Chapter 977 Hairpin
Wang Tao was dragged to the front of the hall by an invisible force, and his knees hit the bluestone slabs heavily. "Wang Tao, you have not yet reached the end of your life, but you have trespassed into the underworld. What crime should you be punished for?" The voice of King Yama seemed to come from the depths of the underworld, shaking Wang Tao all over. The judge unfolded the book of life and death, squinted his eyes and read: "Although you have not committed any great evil, you often have evil thoughts. When you see an old man fall, you ignore it for fear of being blackmailed; when you see a colleague in trouble, you shirk responsibility for fear of causing trouble; although you are filial to your parents, you often speak ill of them over trivial matters..." Wang Tao's forehead was covered with cold sweat, and these memories came like a tide. He remembered the old man who almost fell down with a cane at the subway station last month; he remembered that he deliberately concealed important information from his competitors and colleagues in order to get a promotion; he remembered that every time he video chatted with his mother, he would always hang up the phone impatiently... "Since you have not done any actual evil, this trip to the underworld is just a warning." The judge's pen of King Yama fell heavily, "If you continue to be stubborn, I will not let you go so easily next time!" Before the voice fell, Wang Tao felt dizzy and the voice of Meng Po rang in his ears again: "Remember, there are gods above your head, and the rewards of good and evil are like shadows..." "Ding--" The sharp sound of the alarm clock pierced the darkness. Wang Tao sat up suddenly, and the cold sweat on his forehead soaked the pillow. The familiar musty smell in the rental house mixed with the cold air of the air conditioner hit him in the face. He trembled and took out his mobile phone. On the transfer interface, the anonymous donation received half an hour ago was just enough for his mother's surgery. Outside the window, the morning light penetrated the haze and shone on the empty beer can he drank last night, with a warm light. Since then, Wang Tao has become a different person. He began to take the initiative to help the elderly who fell on the street, and he no longer used any means to make profits at work. He would video chat with his mother every week and patiently listen to her nagging about family matters. Occasionally, when he woke up in the middle of the night, the sobbing on the Yellow Spring Road and the miserable conditions of the eighteen levels of hell would flash in his mind, but he knew that those terrible scenes had already planted the seeds of goodness in his heart, taking root and sprouting, guiding him towards a bright life. And that mysterious journey to the underworld has become a permanent warning in his heart, reminding him all the time that the choice between good and evil is often just a thought away. A few years later, the Shen family returned to its peak, even more glorious than in the previous life. One day, Shen Qingyao stood on the top floor of the Shen family mansion, overlooking the entire capital. The sun shone on her, outlining her resolute outline. She finally completed her revenge and realized her wish to revive the Shen family.
Echoes of the past
On the seventh day of the rainy season, when Lin Wanxing pushed open the wooden door of the "Shiguang" second-hand shop, the copper bell on the eaves made a muffled sound. The humid air wrapped in the smell of camphor wood and dust rushed over. Her fingertips touched the dusty glass counter, and her fingertips were immediately covered with a thin layer of dust. "From today on, this is yours." The lawyer's words last week were still echoing in her ears. Before her death, her distant aunt left this second-hand shop deep in the old alley to her, along with a room full of old objects whose origins were unclear. Lin Wanxing put down her suitcase and was bending down to pick up the price list that was blown down by the wind. Suddenly, a chill passed over her neck. It was as if someone had breathed gently on the back of her neck, and it was like a draft blowing in broken raindrops. She stood up suddenly. There was only a creaking ceiling fan in the store. The hands of the floor clock in the corner were stuck at 3:10, and the pendulum had stopped long ago. "It must be an illusion." She rubbed the back of her neck and continued to organize the shelves. The things left by my great aunt were very diverse, including a silver hairpin from the Republic of China period, a tin biscuit box from the 1980s, a faded cowhide notebook, and even an old film camera. The most eye-catching thing was the gilded pocket watch on the counter, with a lotus pattern engraved on the cover and the edges worn to a shine. When Lin Wanxing went to the attic in the evening to sort out the things, she touched a cardboard tube at the bottom of the camphorwood box. When she unfolded it, it was an unfinished oil painting - a boy in a white shirt sitting under a sycamore tree, with the tip of the brush resting on the lower right corner of the canvas, and there was no time to sign it. The paint had dried, but the boy's profile looked like he would turn around at any time, and there were still fragments of sunlight on his eyelashes. "It's a great painting." She whispered to the frame. As soon as she finished speaking, the wooden stairs of the attic suddenly made a "creaking" sound, as if someone had stepped on it. Lin Wanxing clenched the frame and turned around. The stairs were empty. The setting sun was coming in through the dormer window, casting diamond-shaped spots of light on the floor. Dust was rolling in the light, and there was no other movement. At night, she curled up on the camp bed in the attic, listening to the sound of rain hitting banana leaves outside the window. At 3:10 in the morning, the old radio on the bedside suddenly started to buzz, and a female voice sang "Night Jasmine" intermittently. The tune was very out of tune, like a tape that had been soaked in water. She sat up suddenly, and the radio had clearly been out of power. The singing stopped at 3:11 on time, and then there was a slight sound of footsteps downstairs - not the sound of her cotton slippers stepping on the floor, but hard-soled leather shoes, one step at a time, stopping in front of the counter. Lin Wanxing hugged her knees and huddled at the head of the bed until she fell asleep in a daze when it was almost dawn. The next day, she found half a fingerprint in front of the counter, printed on the dusty glass, with slender knuckles, like a man's hand. "Who are you?" She asked the empty store, and her voice echoed between the shelves. What answered her was the sudden "click" sound of her pocket watch. The pocket watch that she had tried countless times to wind up but failed was now vibrating slightly through the glass. Lin Wanxing trembled as she unlocked the counter and held the pocket watch in her palm. The lotus pattern on the cold metal shell seemed to come alive, leaving a slight chill on her palm. "Are you moving?" She put her ear to the watch cover and heard the faint sound of gears turning inside, as if someone was walking in a maze far away. From that day on, more subtle changes began to take place in the store. The jasmine tea she brewed in the morning was half a cup less in the time it took her to turn around; the half-finished letters would be arranged by page number; what frightened her most was that a sharpened pencil appeared next to the unfinished oil painting. Lin Wanxing was no longer afraid. She began to talk to the air, and when she sorted out old things, she would mutter "This biscuit box needs to be oiled" or "The pearl of this brooch is missing a corner." Sometimes, just as she finished speaking, a gust of wind would blow the flannel to her hand. She could gradually catch clearer traces. For example, when sorting through photo albums, a yellowed group photo would turn out by itself, and the boy standing in the back row in the photo had the same eyebrows and eyes as the person in the oil painting; for example, when wiping the wooden cabinet, her fingertips would touch an area that was warmer than the surrounding area, and the shape looked like someone had leaned on it for a long time. "What's your name?" That evening,