She was wearing a pale blue shirt that had been washed white, her black hair was tied up with only a simple wooden hairpin, and a few strands of hair hung down by her cheeks. The afterglow of the setting sun shone softly on her body, outlining her exquisitely beautiful side profile. She lowered her head slightly and looked at the embroidery in her hand intently. Her slender fingers held the silver needle and dexterously moved up, down, and shuttled on the plain silk cloth. The movements are demure and graceful, with a unique sense of rhythm.
There was no eating melon seeds, no posing, and no flirtatious eyes.
Just focus. An almost pious concentration, immersed in the world of silk threads in her hands. The setting sun danced on her lowered eyelashes, but it couldn't shine into the silent, irreversible melancholy deep in her eyes. The melancholy was so deep, as if she was carrying the sorrow of the whole world, forming a thrilling contrast with her young and beautiful face.
