Zhao Yiming didn't see any family members, but that was alright.
At least the funeral was decent—flowers arranged neatly behind his smiling photo, incense burning slowly beside it.
A long silk banner with the words "In Deep Mourning for Lao Chen" hung above the altar.
A spirit tablet rested beside the framed photo, surrounded by fruit offerings and folded joss paper arranged neatly on a tray.
Not much, but enough. Honestly, he never thought anyone would even bring flowers to his funeral.
His gaze wandered around the room… and then landed on a little girl crying softly in her mother's arms.
'Ah… I remember that child. Li Xiao…' he smiled bitterly.
She was just a kid, maybe ten or eleven back then. One summer, during a heatwave, she'd given him a small electric fan as a gift.
He'd received it with a wide grin and said:
"Li Xiao, you didn't have to do this! But thank you so much."
"Don't worry, Uncle Lao. It's not just from me—my friends and I chipped in," she'd beamed.
"I saw on the news that lots of old people were getting heatstroke, and I thought maybe this would help!"
"Oh, you sweet little girl…"
But just as he was about to set the fan in the security booth, his stingy boss, Jin Haolong, had swaggered over with that ever-present scowl.
"What's that? What do you think you're gonna do with it?"
"Li Xiao gave it to me as a present. I'll keep it in the booth," he replied calmly.
"Don't you dare! Who's gonna pay for the electricity? You want your pay docked?!" Jin barked, hands on his hips like some self-righteous overlord.
"But… it's just a small fan," Li Xiao had tried to explain. "It doesn't use much…"
"Little girl, you don't understand economics! Are you and your little friends going to pay my electric bill too?" he sneered.
Then he turned on Lao Chen. "And you! Taking handouts from kids now? I know you're broke, but this is pathetic!"
Lao Chen had clenched his jaw so hard that day. He wanted to yell, to throw the fan straight at Jin's ugly mug. But he needed that job. So he just bowed his head.
Li Xiao had puffed up in protest, "Why are you so mean?! Spending a little money won't make you poor!"
"This is exactly why I'm the landlord and you're just a little girl with a poor mother. So don't lecture me," Jin scoffed, adjusting his sunglasses like a wannabe celebrity.
The little girl had gone quiet, face red and trembling.
"It's alright, Xiao Xiao…" Lao Chen had crouched beside her and smiled gently.
"You don't need to say anything. I'm sorry I can't take your gift today."
Now, standing at the back of the funeral hall, Zhao Yiming let out a long breath as the memory faded.
'A dark time, indeed.'
His eyes followed Li Xiao and her mother as they quietly left the room.
'I never said thank you properly… to her or her family.'
He bowed deeply from where he stood.
'Thank you… for your kindness when I was still Lao Chen. I hope the world treats you ten times better in return.'
He silently prayed.
As Zhao Yiming scanned the room, he spotted many familiar faces—people from his old life.
There was old Gao, his mahjong buddy, sobbing like a child in front of the altar.
"Stupid Lao! Why'd you leave first, huh?! I'm older than you, damn it!"
And Lirong—the young woman who always came to him for love advice, even though she kept falling for scumbags.
"I promise I'll leave that man once and for all... for your sake... huhu..." she wept, her mascara running.
Most of them were people he had helped at some point. Some had even given him trouble back in the day. But they'd still come, they'd still wept, and he... forgave them all.
All except one.
Zhao Yiming's eyes darkened. 'Jin Haolong.'
His fists clenched tight.
'I know revenge is short-sighted... I know it only makes me feel better for a second...'
'But I swear, I'll do something to that guy. Just once. Just enough to make him wish he never met me.'
He took a deep breath. Then exhaled.
'...Not today, though. Today isn't about hate. It's about goodbye.'
With heavy steps, Zhao Yiming walked toward the altar. His old photo smiled back at him.
He picked up a stick of incense, lit it slowly, and placed it into the holder. Then, he bowed three times to respect the death.
And inside his mind, he prayed:
'You lived your life well. Even if it wasn't perfect, you did your best to survive and showed kindness whenever you could.'
'You may not have seen those seeds of kindness bloom, but here they are—people gathered to love you, to apologize, to mourn—'
'No, they're not just mourning your death—they're celebrating your life.'
'So... thank you. Thank you for everything, for staying alive when the times get tough, to not ever give up in everything.'
'I'll do my best to live this new life—and make it as memorable as possible.'
He bowed again, deeper this time.
Then smiled up at the photo. It was a great picture—taken on one of the best days of his life.
Summer at the beach, when the tenants had surprised him with a picnic. They paid for everything, just to make him smile.
Yeah... it really was a good life.
But his quiet reflection was shattered by the voice of a teenage girl, loud and venomous.
"Why would we keep his urn, Mom?! Just throw it into the ocean—or bury it under the damn ground!"
Zhao Yiming turned sharply. That voice.
The girl stood out from the crowd, even in mourning black. Her long black hair framed a furious face, and her sharp violet eyes burned with rage.
"Xinya! Don't say something like that! He was your father—" her mother snapped, but then hesitated.
Wen Qiao stood composed despite her age. Mid-fifties, silver strands tucked neatly behind her ears, a shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders.
Her elegance hadn't faded. Neither had those same purple eyes—wiser, but just as fierce.
"Shut up, Mom!" Xinya shouted.
"That man was never our family! He was just a drunk bastard who ruined everything—!"
SLAP!
The sound echoed across the room like a gunshot.
Everyone froze.
Wen Qiao stood firm, her expression like steel. Her voice was low, but each word cut clean.
"You may hate him. You may never forgive him. But he was still your father. That fact won't change. Not even in death. The least you can do is show some respect."
Xinya stared at her, stunned—like a puppy struck for the first time. Her face flushed, eyes trembling.
Then she turned around and stormed out without a word.
Zhao Yiming didn't move. He just stood there, breath caught in his throat.
He knew exactly who they were.
Wen Qiao... his wife.
And that girl—
'My daughter. Lao Xinya.'