Rain on the Eaves and Dust on the Steps

The fire in the mass grave was extinguished, and the love died on the scorched earth. When Jiang Cheng hid the blackened bamboo flute in the wooden box, he never thought that in the next three years, he would enter the warehouse countless times late at night and stare at the cracks. The loquats in Lianhuawu are ripe and then fall; the lotus roots in the lotus pond wither and grow again. He reorganized the family business, taught Jin Ling archery, and always placed an extra set of bowls and chopsticks when pouring wine for his sister in the ancestral hall. Nie Huaisang's fan shook through the spring and autumn, Lan Wangji's piano music soaked in the cold pond water, and the purple lightning in his sleeves always felt slightly hot when the wind blew - just like the temperature when that person secretly tugged on his sleeves when he was still there. There is no heart-rending crying, only the soft sound of rain hitting the stone steps, and the longing hidden in the dust in front of the steps. It turns out that the deepest thoughts I miss are not the screams, but the smile of the emperor in the unopened jar under the loquat tree, the lotus flowers deliberately carved crookedly on the arrow shafts, and the slightly astringent sweetness in my throat when I suddenly remember "Wei Wuxian always loved to play tricks here back then" on an ordinary afternoon. This is Jiang Cheng's thirteenth year. About waiting, about relief, about those unsaid words, they all turned into a "idiot" in the wind of the lotus pond, as soft as a sigh.