“Xianghou, you take your mother and Cuicui and go have some fun — three people, see the waterfall. It’s beautiful, like an immortal realm.”
“And Uncle Tian, you’re not coming?”
“Me? I won’t go. Who goes back to their own hometown to travel?”
“That won’t do. Uncle Tian, this prize is what you drew — how could we take it? We’d feel bad.”
“Go ask your mother, talk it over with her.”
“All right… I’ll go ask her. Uncle Tian, come in and have some water.”
“No need, no need. I’ll wait right here, heh heh.”
Old Tian stood at the doorway, rubbing his hands.
Li Juxiang took the prize ticket and went inside to find Liu Jinxia sitting there, copying a memorial inscription from the birthday-eight-character set the guests had given her.
Liu Jinxia was writing a draft.
She started by taking a thick book and following its text to break down the birth date and time; the end was a fixed structure — mourning the dead, wishing them peace and safety below, and occasionally asking them to bless the living descendants.
In the middle she copied passages out of scripture: a bit of Taoism, a bit of Buddhism, mainly to make it look high-class.
Liu Jinxia just did the circles and marks; she would have her granddaughter copy it neatly once she came home from school.
Cuicui’s handwriting had been getting prettier.