Mochen Zhi

The night wind whimpers and the cold moon is like frost. In the fields outside Xiaoli Village, the withered grass rustled, like weeping or sighing. The moonlight was pale, spreading on the muddy field ridge, reflecting a staggering figure - it was a woman in ragged clothes, with messy hair, a withered face, and a pre-term baby tightly held in her arms. Her steps were frivolous, as if she would fall down at any time, but she still walked forward stubbornly, towards the Luo Mi River. Home is gone. The husband was addicted to gambling, owed unpayable debts, and was beaten to death in an alley. The parents, running around to collect money, contracted the cold and died three days later. And her child happened to be born on that most desperate day.