The wind in the twelfth lunar month cut like a knife, stinging whoever it touched.
Qin Huai curled up in a corner beneath the overpass, wrapped in threadbare cotton batting that could no longer keep out much of the cold. He didn't know how much longer he could hold on. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but either way, it wouldn't be long.
He hadn't eaten in three days.
Acid churned in his stomach, and his limbs had long since given out. Even standing up had become an impossible dream. But none of that hurt as much as the scar over his heart, the one that would never heal.
