A crescent moon suddenly lit up in the darkness; it was she who opened her eyelids.
Yin Ye.
West wind, cold.
Tianshan in August snows, legend seems not to be a falsehood, but she is still eight hundred miles away from Tianshan, and now May has just passed half, yet there is already such coldness, living in Western Long for twenty years she didn't know.
But she has never wrapped in a single garment, exhausted and injured, sleeping exposed at the alley's end.
She wrapped her clothes tighter, trying to fall asleep again, but the fear in her heart wouldn't go away, so she lowered her head again, carefully pulling out half a dagger from her bosom, reflecting her face in the faint light, seeing these young, clear eyes incongruous on a wrinkled face.
Tears were about to fall, but she forced herself to hold them back.
