On the fifteenth day of the twelfth lunar month, heavy snow sealed the palace.
The wind was like a knife, rolling up goose feather-like snowflakes and slamming them on the low eaves of Yeting.
There was no charcoal fire in the laundry room, only a dying oil lamp swaying in the corner, reflecting a thin shadow on the ground.
Shen Jinghong knelt on the bluestone with his bare feet, his fingers already turned purple from the cold, and the blood seeping from the crack mixed with the cold water, dyeing the coarse cloth he was scrubbing red.
She said nothing, just rubbed, rubbed and twisted mechanically.
Although the movement was slow, it was very methodical - each diaper had to be soaked in water three times, and the folds at the corners were carefully scraped with nails. This was the first rule of survival she learned in the sin slave camp: if you don't do it well enough, you will be beaten; if you do it too well, you will be jealous.
