When Lian Aixi opened his eyes in a biting chill, what lingered on his nose was not the smell of hospital disinfectant, but the smell of damp musty and burnt firewood.
She wanted to raise her hands to rub her swollen temples, but she found that her arms were as heavy as lead, and the burlap sleeves were abrasive to her skin. This was not the silk shirt she had worn before the car accident. The sight slowly focused on the dim room. The adobe walls were mottled and peeling off. The skylight leaking from the roof cast tiny spots on the ground. Half a bundle of dry firewood was piled in the corner. The only furniture was a wooden table with missing legs. There was a chipped pottery bowl on the corner of the table, with half a bowl of turbid rice soup left in the bowl.
