During the rainy season, Beijing is always covered with a layer of mist. Shen Qingyan stood at the entrance of the cemetery, holding the white chrysanthemum on his fingertips and trembling with ice from the metal umbrella handle. The inky figure at the end of the stone steps was leaning against the black Bentley. The cuffs of her silver-gray suit were rolled up, and the cold light reflected from the watch made her eyes burn.
"Miss Shen is punctual." Lu Huaijin played with the lighter, and the flames were clearly extinguished between his knuckled fingers, "We haven't seen each other for seven years, and you can't even say hello?"
White chrysanthemum petals rustled on the green bricks. Shen Qingyan remembered that when she was seventeen years old, it was also the rainy season. She huddled in the piano room of the Lu family's old house, and was forced to have nowhere to escape by her stepmother's cynicism. When Lu Huaijin kicked the door open, she was holding the strawberry milk she had just snatched from the convenience store in her hand. The milk stains splashed on her skirt were hotter than tears.
