"Aren't we friends?" In her memory, she once asked sincerely, her voice carrying the unique clearness of a girl, echoing in the field full of foxtail grass.
"We have never been friends." A hundred years later, the cold muzzle of a gun pressed against her heart. The man holding the gun cut off all the tender memories with a voice that she was once very familiar with, but now was filled with frost.
The sun rose again, and Xie Zhao slowly opened his eyes, feeling the dull pain caused by the nightmare lingering in his chest. It's been a long time since I remembered her so clearly, remembering those eyes that were once filled with the breeze and bright moon, but in the end were only filled with determination and hatred. Why do I keep dreaming about it recently? It's probably because I've lived too long and am so idle.
