I stood in front of my daughter’s gravestone.

Back when she was in elementary school, the school held an activity to let them understand life and death. They took them to the cemetery.

My daughter saw this place and immediately pointed at it, saying loudly, “I like this place. When I die, I want to live here. I’ll tell my children to bury me here!”

Now my daughter is buried here, but it wasn't her children who buried her—it was her own mother.

I burned my daughter’s belongings in front of her gravestone. I leaned weakly against it, chatting with her casually.

The sky gradually began to rain.

The rain...