In the autumn of the third year of Yong'an, on the banks of the Wei River on the outskirts of Chang'an, a cold rain had just passed. There were puddles of varying depths on the muddy dirt road. The wind blew withered yellow thatch and poured water into the broken thatched huts built by the refugees. Xin Aixi woke up from the cold - not the cold wind from the air conditioner in the exhibition hall, but the cold wind with an earthy smell, which made her cheeks hurt. The straw under her body was hard and still stained with moisture.
