Wang Jianjun didn’t really remember things from when he was a child, and he hadn’t come back for decades, so he didn’t recognize anyone. Seeing now that a villager who had helped with the burial back then was not only still alive but also willing to help, Wang Jianjun hurriedly offered him a cigarette.

"Uncle, sorry to trouble you, please lead the way."

"It’s no trouble, we’re all from the same village. When something happens, just call, no need to talk about trouble or not." The old man took the cigarette and replied with a smile.

In the village, this kind of thing was normal. It was an established rule in the past: for weddings and funerals, everyone would help out. There was no money given, but meals were provided.

When something happened, everyone would go. A village thrived on this kind of unity. Now, with fewer people in the village and even fewer young people, the habit of helping out during weddings and funerals persisted.

Though Wang Jianjun hadn’t been back for decades, he knew these things. Knowing is one thing, giving a pack of cigarettes as a token of appreciation is another.

After all, things are different now than they were before, and one shouldn’t take such matters for granted.

A newcomer to the village was also named Wang, a common surname here. His full name was unknown to Wang Jianjun, but it was known that he was fifteenth among his peers, so everyone called him Fifteenth Wang all these years.

After a few of them had breakfast, they took some food and water, in case they couldn’t return by noon, saving it for lunch and the afternoon.

Walking along a mountain path, after an hour, Fifteenth Wang took out a machete to clear the way, cutting away low branches and dry weeds, revealing what seemed like a small dirt path covered by grass.

In the early winter of late autumn, it was still impossible to see at a glance that there was a road here, proving that no one had come here for a long time.

Most of Central Plains County was relatively flat plain terrain, but the western part still had vast expanses of mountains, underdeveloped with little cultivation, incomparable to the large areas to the east.

Walking in such a place, Wang Jianjun recalled memories that resurfaced in his mind from yesterday to today.

He remembered that, when he was little, his grandpa would lock the gate when going out, leaving him at home with prepared food, sometimes steaming an egg custard full of honeycomb, with a few drops of sesame oil.

Now he understood why the sesame oil felt less fragrant; there was always a stubborn thought that today’s sesame oil wasn’t as good as before.

For the rest of his life, he likely won’t have that feeling again, where just a few drops of sesame oil could fill the whole kitchen with fragrance.

This kind of nostalgia would only grow stronger, never fading.

As a result, when he later became a cook, he never used sesame oil, finding it meaningless.

Though just returning to the village for a day, he had already recalled many things.

He was naturally eager now, hoping to remember more upon seeing his grandpa’s grave.

To see if he could recall exactly what happened back then.

The only thing he remembered now was calling out when his grandpa was changing, and the next memory, which might not even be the next day, was of his grandpa passing away, with villagers helping with the funeral, leaving him bewildered and helpless.

He had awakened the power and knowledge deep in his bloodline, recalling the knowledge his grandpa had taught him.

His mind was now filled with the doubt of whether he had been the cause of his grandpa’s demise.

For he now understood that, when someone wearing a mask is recognized by a close person, there might be consequences.

The previous night, he couldn’t sleep well, tossing and turning, dreaming each time he dozed off, about his grandpa meeting his end on the spot due to his mistake.

Each time he closed his eyes, he saw different ways of dying, casting an indelible shadow over him, bringing great fear, confusion, and pain.

He was terrified to the point of wanting to leave, wanting to run away.

But opening his eyes, he settled down, deciding he didn’t want to escape anymore.

He now suspected that his lack of memory of his childhood was due to the child he once was trying to escape, forcing himself to forget as a form of self-protection.

He had read books, learned things, watched videos, and heard that some children, when facing psychological trauma, would forget those events as a form of self-protection.

As a child, he should have known the rules, he was sure he did.

He was very certain of this today, recalling that several times when his grandpa was handling matters, for some unknown reason, he had to be brought along, sitting far away with his hand covering his mouth.

At the time, he couldn’t grasp the deeper meaning, but he also remembered that when his grandpa wore the mask, he should remain silent and not speak.

He didn’t understand why, but he knew what to do.

The more memories resurfaced, the more anguish filled his heart.

While Wang Jianjun dwelled on these thoughts, his hand was caught by someone, and coming back to himself, he turned to see his wife holding his hand, giving him a smile.

"What are you thinking about? Don’t overthink, watch your step."

Wang Jianjun looked down and found that one foot had stepped onto the slope beside the path, nearly leading to a tumble down the mountain.

"I’m fine, let’s keep going."

Wang Jianjun took a deep breath, his gaze gradually firming up.

He wanted to understand; he wanted to remember everything. These few days had entrapped him in suffering, sinking deeper and deeper, unable to extricate himself, with nightmares waking him several times a night.