In the winter of the 30th year of Yuanjia, the reed swamps on the south bank of Bian River were rustled by the cold wind, like countless blunt knives cutting human bones. Qiang Ai Xi woke up from the cold. The biting coldness penetrated through the gaps in the torn linen clothes, making him shiver. Only then did he realize that he was huddled in a pile of hay, surrounded by the sounds of coughs and groans. This was a shack where refugees gathered. The low adobe walls could not block the wind, and the roof was leaking. A few stars could be seen hanging in the dark blue night sky.
"Water... Give me some water..." A skinny old man next to him stretched out his hand and made a hoarse voice in his throat. Qiang Ai Xi subconsciously wanted to touch his mobile phone to call an ambulance, but his hand came up empty. He was not wearing the custom-made suit he wore at the bank's annual meeting yesterday, but a short brown cloth that was full of patches and smelled of mustiness. There were only a few pieces of cold broken silver in his pocket, and a cloth bag with half a piece of dry hard wheat cake tied with a hemp rope.
Confusing memories suddenly flood into my mind
