But this ink can no longer cover the light.
The Cultural Hall of the Japanese Consulate on the bank of the Huangpu River is brightly lit. The diplomats raised their glasses and talked and laughed, celebrating that the "Nightingale Dance" crisis had subsided, Shen Zhao was imprisoned, Zhou Xubai was seriously injured, and everything was under control. But they don't know that there is never only one real nightingale.
In the dark alley at the corner of the street, a black car slowly stopped.
The car door opened and a woman wearing a plain cheongsam stepped out. Her bun is slightly white, her face is old, but her eyes are as clear as stars. She looked up at the high wall of the consulate and whispered: "Thirty-two years... I can finally come back to pick up my daughter."
