After Mom got in the car, she kept studying an old map nonstop. The ink had faded, the lines looked hand-drawn, and tiny notes crowded the margins...
I leaned close for ages but couldn’t decipher it. Giving up, I slumped back, pulled out my phone—zero signal. With no choice, I stared blankly at the monotonous landscape outside.
Sometime later, I dozed off without meaning to. Waking up, the scenery remained unchanged.
“Where are we going…?” I finally couldn’t hold back my impatience.
Mom glanced at me, then at Second Brother driving ahead.
“Don’t make noise. You’ll find out soon enough.”
I still hadn’t properly washed up since waking. Faint traces of yesterday’s makeup lingered on my face.
Just saying—I rarely wear makeup. Only when meeting friends do I bother sprucing up.
True, I was wrapped in Mom’s black mink coat—elegant, cool, stylish.
But underneath? That school uniform, stiff with Lizi Sa’s dried blood.
If this were a trip, I’d refuse to be seen like this.
Even fully covered by the coat, my white sneakers would instantly break the vibe.
Still… this setup didn’t feel like a winter outing.
“Whose cars are these? Second Brother’s?” I glanced back at the identical black Land Rovers tailing us, puzzled.
“Known him hours and already calling him Second Brother?” Mom shot me a glare.
I shrugged innocently toward Second Brother.
“I told her to,” he chuckled. “Rough guy like me—years on the streets, I’m used to the title. ‘Uncle’ doesn’t even register sometimes.”
“What’s mine is Sister Yi’s. What’s Sister Yi’s is yours. So yeah… these cars are practically yours.” He grinned.
“Our Xiao Ji doesn’t care about your beat-up cars. Stop sucking up!” Mom snapped.
Well… honestly? I *did* care a little.
“Sister Yi” must mean Mom, Yan Huayi. Makes sense—Second Brother’s the younger one.
Hearing this, I felt tangled. Mom didn’t seem friendly toward him.
Guessing roughly: these people, these cars—all Mom’s. She carried herself like the leader; Second Brother, like her subordinate.
So the devoted homemaker who lived with me in an apartment for over ten years… was actually a young lady from a prominent family?
Not shocking anymore. If Dad could be a tomb raider, what couldn’t Mom be?
Still… she hid it deep. Traces of grace showed sometimes, but back then? No matter how hard I racked my brain, I’d never have guessed she was *truly* one.
“Alright, alright~ Not interested, not interested,” Second Brother grinned, teeth showing.
“But sis… you never told Xiao Ji *anything* about the Yan Clan? Harsh.” He sounded genuinely surprised.
Mom leaned back with a long sigh.
“Old Master disowned me. I wasn’t Yan Clan anymore—how could I face telling my daughter about it?” Her voice dipped low.
“Ah, you know his temper! All bark, no bite. After you left, he sent people checking on you constantly. Always hinting he hoped you’d return!”
“Hoped I’d return? At Mom’s funeral, he nearly threw me out!” Mom retorted sourly, lips pursed.
“But he *didn’t*. Proof he never meant it! Mend things with Old Master. Family connections could get Xiao Ji into a good school, right?”
Second Brother was clearly mediating Mom’s rift with Grandpa. From this, I was certain: Mom *was* that young lady.
But why did Grandpa drive her away? I kept circling back—was it Dad’s fault?
Any father would rage if his daughter married a tomb raider… especially a lady like Mom.
Rows of low houses emerged—a small village.
The lead car stopped beside the most imposing building; the others followed.
Mom and Second Brother stepped out. Wrapped in the coat, I hopped down—and froze.
A ribbon of azure stretched across the horizon.
*Qinghai Lake.* I mentally scanned Xining City’s sights. Only this place held such grandeur.
Behind me, men in coats hurriedly carried canisters into the courtyard. Oxygen tanks?
November air bit deep.
A warm-faced Tibetan woman in a wheelchair rolled out, sharing a gentle hug with Mom.
Too cold for chatter, she ushered us straight inside.
Second Brother and the crew fussed in the yard, but the wind killed my curiosity. I ducked in after Mom.
Inside: faint incense scent, cozy and calm. The stove blazed—I felt instantly revived.
Mom introduced me. “Call her Aunt Droma.”
Common among Tibetans, I figured. I obediently greeted her.
Droma’s Mandarin was flawlessly standard. Smiling warmly, she leaned over, patted my head.
“She takes after you… truly beautiful.”
Mom settled into conversation with Droma. I sat quietly, half-listening, gazing through the fogged window at blurred figures moving in the yard.
*Why oxygen tanks?*
The lake’s frozen solid in November—definitely not for swimming.
Maybe not oxygen? Just iron canisters with something else… I frowned.
Then Droma mentioned a strange incident from winter 1978.
A flicker of familiarity struck me. *Where had I heard this?*
Watching her pale face as she spoke, I chewed my thumb, lips pressed tight—
Glanced at Mom.
She glanced back.
*Click.*
This was *the* bedtime ghost story Dad told me as a kid…
About little Droma.
