The snow in the cold palace is silver-green ashes, and each piece reflects the shadow of the glass lamp. There is a charred hole behind Shen Zhi's waist - there should be a lamp there.
Her father said she was a container, and the old mama taught her how to appreciate the time, while Xiao Jingheng chuckled in the wick: "Sister, we are two lies growing out of the same lamp."
