At the Chairman Hao Xiang's resting place...The funeral procession, a sea of somber white, moved with a glacial slowness through the sprawling Xiang family cemetery. The air, thick with the scent of burning sandalwood and the mournful cadence of Buddhist chants, pressed down on Sarah like a physical weight. Her grandfather, Chairman Hao Xiang, was being laid to rest, and the finality of it all was a cold, sharp ache in her chest.The ornate urn, a masterpiece of carved jade and gold, was carried by pallbearers, their faces etched with grief or, in some cases, a carefully cultivated semblance of it. Sarah, dressed in a simple white dress, felt a sense of surreal detachment. It was as if she is observing a scene from a play, a meticulously staged performance of mourning.Chairman Vincent Feng, her granduncle, stands beside her, his face a mask of grim composure. His eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were now clouded with a deep, almost paternal sadness. He had lost a brother, a lifel
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