The salty wind blew up the foam and slapped it on the window paper, making a soft rustling sound, which was very similar to the sound of snow particles hitting animal skin jackets in the snowy fields of the north. Shao Bianyun was holding half a charcoal pen, and the pen tip was hanging above the yellowed hemp paper without falling down. The sunlight slanted through the window lattice, casting a line between light and dark on the back of his hand, illuminating the shallow scar on his knuckles particularly clearly - it was a souvenir of the scarf A Nuo gave him when he first learned to use scissors.
