Autumn in Beijing is much more fierce than in Jiangcheng. The midday sun shines through the bulletproof glass of the military jeep and casts grid-like spots on the back of Lu Yu's hands, making people feel hot and dry. His fingertips unconsciously rubbed the white lines on the seams of his trousers - these trousers were left behind when he was on a mission at the border three years ago. There were patches of the same color on the knees. The stitches were sewn by Shen Qingyi herself. They were fine and tight. Like her, she looked cold and hard, but in fact she had a warmth that others didn't understand.
