His head felt as if he had been kicked by a donkey, and he was so heavy that he felt numb, his throat was so dry that it was burning, and there was an indescribable musty smell mixed with it. Shen Qingyan struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids were as heavy as glue, and it took a lot of effort to open a crack.
What you see is not the familiar incandescent lamps and bookshelves in the library, but the dark beams, with an oil lamp with a missing corner hanging on it. The wick dances with a weak flame, making the shadows in the room crooked. Beneath him was a hard earthen kang, and the straw covered with it was so painful that his bones hurt. The quilt covering him was thin and hard, and had a strange smell mixed with musty and sweat.
