The sky had finally darkened.
In the hall of the Old Zhao family's backyard, a round table was laid out with a red cloth, bowls and chopsticks arranged neatly around it, with both hot and cold dishes prepared in the center.
The hot dishes and wine had cooled, but they would wait to be warmed again until the guests arrived.
Zhao Juanhua, the matriarch of the Zhao clan, sat in a seat of honor, her head bowed slightly, her expression serious.
There were other old women in the village her age, but they had all hunched over with age and weakness, looking like shadows of their former selves.
In contrast, there were hardly any deep wrinkles on her face.
Age could not be ignored; no matter how well one cared for themselves, they would still show signs of their years.
To defy this too blatantly would lead to an odd appearance.
Zhao Juanhua's skin was excessively pale, with a prominent forehead, a jutting jawline, and thick, high nose and lips.
Her features were too exaggerated, making her look like she should not be wandering the earthly realm but rather stationed in a temple as an idol for worship.
She was fiddling with a string of black prayer beads, reciting the Heart Sutra, but her inner restlessness only grew as her lips spoke the sacred words, leaving her even more anxious.