The wind in the twelfth lunar month is like a knife, cutting people's faces and causing pain.
Qin Huai huddled in the corner under the overpass, and the torn cotton wool wrapped around him could no longer block the cold air. He didn't know how long he could last - maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, but in short, it was almost over.
He hasn't eaten in three days.
Acid water surged in his stomach, his limbs had long since lost strength, and even standing up became a luxury. But these are nothing compared to the scar on my heart, the scar that will never heal.
