Bamboo Snow Sinks into Inkstone

63-Year-old Li Yuanjue was sitting on the edge of the icy lake in front of the bamboo hut, fishing, his head covered with white snow, holding half of the remaining inkstone of his father Li Cheng in his hand. The inkstone had been soaked in the ink fragrance of Xuanpingfang in the capital, and also soaked in the mud on the escape road. She is the daughter of a fifth-rank official, but she survived nine years in the Taoist temple; I have seen the Lantern Festival river lanterns in the capital filling the city defense, and I have also witnessed the iron chains dragging down Begonias when they ransacked homes; After meeting Qi Kairan, who promised her to "watch the lanterns every year", her heart was finally broken and filled with warmth under the silver hairpin in his outer room. When Hu Qi broke through the city gate, she carried her mother on her back and led her younger brother to flee south, burying the feelings of her family, country, and children in the rough road. Now that the bamboo snow is covered with fishing rods, she looks back on her life in the reflection of the ice cave, and realizes that the thoughts hidden in the poems, scraps of inkstones and plum petals have long been like the snow in the bamboo forest, sinking into the coldness that cannot be dispelled by the years.