On the phone, the old man gave a mock snort of anger. "You little rascal, stop trying to sweet-talk me. I may be old, but I'm not senile!
Some people say they need a month to prepare for their thesis defense, and then what? Disappeared for two full months!"
Hearing this, Li Qiao smiled and responded unhurriedly, "Then, Teacher, are you free tomorrow? I'll come and make amends in person."
"At least you still have a conscience!" The old man pondered for a few seconds. "I have to go to the association tomorrow morning. Come over then—your senior will be there too."
After hanging up, Li Qiao stood in the light rain, staring at the symbol on her phone screen. Her earlier irritability and suppressed thoughts seemed to ease a little.
Every time, it was only in her teacher's presence that those negative emotions could truly settle.
…
The next day, at 8:30 a.m., Li Qiao finished showering and changed into a black hoodie and jeans. Her long, damp hair was tied into a ponytail. With her cool and striking presence, she left the house.
She drove straight to the Nanyang Funeral Culture Association, located in the old part of town.
After a 20-minute drive, her Mercedes came to a stop by the curb near a row of old-fashioned three-story Western-style buildings.
The buildings and streets of the old town bore the weight of history—narrow alleys, old offices from another era, peeling paint on residential houses—every detail spoke of a humble, lived-in life.
Li Qiao got out of the car, one hand in her pocket, and crossed the sidewalk without a glance to either side, heading directly through the association's main entrance.
In the first-floor lobby, the receptionist quickly stood and pointed to the hallway on the left. "You're here. Master Jiu is in Reception Room No. 1."
"Thanks," Li Qiao replied mildly and made her way through the lobby with practiced ease.
A few new staff members exchanged curious looks and soon huddled together, asking excitedly, "Brother Liu, who was that pretty girl?"
Receptionist Liu looked at them in surprise. "You don't know?"
Seeing the confused shakes of their heads, he immediately lowered his voice and explained like an insider, "Let me tell you, she's the only female student Master Jiu has ever taken under his wing. She's also the association's annual funding sponsor."
Gasp—
Master Jiu's student?
Master Jiu, surname Zhong, is in his fifties. No one knows his full name—legend has it he's the ninth child in his family, hence everyone respectfully calls him Zhong Jiu Gong.
In the entire funeral culture industry, there's not a soul in Nanyang who hasn't heard of Master Zhong Jiu.
Because he is the most highly esteemed mortician in all of Nanyang.
…
In Reception Room No. 1, Li Qiao sat beside Master Zhong Jiu, head lowered, hands stuffed into her hoodie pockets, long legs stretched out under the table—her entire demeanor was lifeless and dull.
At that moment, Zhong Jiu Gong, hair white and expression kindly, took a sip from his old-fashioned enamel mug, glanced at her, and commented dryly, "Young people these days. Talk big about wanting to apologize, but once they're through the door, they go mute."
Li Qiao: "…"
She cast a silent glance at him, then placed a check on the table. "This is for the association's funding for the second half of the year."
Zhong Jiu Gong took another sip, looked at the amount on the check, and nodded in satisfaction. "Hmm, not bad, not bad. A sincere apology."
Li Qiao leaned back in her chair, head tilted, gaze deep. "Teacher, is there any work recently?"
Zhong Jiu Gong put down his mug and studied her carefully. "Thinking about him again, aren't you? Every time you come asking for work, you're in this state."