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The air that weekend was still and gray, like an undeveloped photograph. The “High Hong Lin” residential complex greeted them with the dreary monotony of concrete panels and blank, identical windows, and its name held a mockery, like an old, forgotten song about happiness. They walked in silence, and the sound of their footsteps on the pitted asphalt seemed inappropriately loud. Desheng walked first, carrying a small bouquet of chrysanthemums in his hands →