When Lin Xia's eardrums were pierced by the sharp sound of braking, she smelled the scent of acacia nectar.
This was the last thing she felt before she fell into coma. The locust flowers in May should be sweet, but now they are mixed with the turbid smell of gasoline and blood. She watched her left hand fly out, still wearing the silver ring left by her mother on her ring finger, drawing a beautiful parabola on the asphalt road. The inner ring of the silver ring was engraved with vague Sanskrit characters, and it was strangely hot in the pool of blood.
