This photograph was Qiana Childe's favorite during her lifetime, with red lips and white teeth, bright eyes that charmed everyone.
More than twenty years ago, she was in her prime, a socialite of Landon, the apple of Spencer Childe's eye, his only daughter, pursued by many.
But alas, her love was misplaced.
The sky is dim, with only an eternal lamp remaining lit.
Under the light, Sylvan Cheney's deep gaze rests long on the photo on the grave, his eyes never shifting away.
On such a night, murky and dark, all around is silent; Sylvan Cheney can even hear his own breath.
"Mr. Cheney, everything is better now. If the young lady knows from her resting place, she must be very comforted." Tomer sighed, "It's just a pity the young lady can't enjoy any happiness. If she were still alive and saw Mr. Cheney and Mr. Chale Cheney, she'd certainly be overjoyed. She used to love children. If she knew how charming the young master is, she would have cherished him in the palm of her hand."
