Headache.
It hurt like someone was sawing back and forth on my temple with a dull knife.
I subconsciously wanted to turn off the alarm and sleep for another five minutes, but my hand felt something cold and hard. Not a cell phone screen, not a bedside table, but a stone.
Cold, rough, damp stone.
My eyes shot open.
Above the head are the beams covered with cobwebs, and the gray curtain hangs down, most of it torn, revealing the black cotton wool inside. There was a musty smell in the air mixed with the sweet smell of something rotten. Beneath him was a bone-hard wooden bed, covered with a thin layer of straw. The straw dug into his collar, making it unbearably itchy.
This is not my rental.
I sat up and looked around. It was a cramped room with mottled walls, and the adobe inside could be seen where the walls were peeling off. There were several holes in the paper on the window, and the cold wind blew in, swirling the dust accumulated on the ground. Broken tables and chairs were piled up in one corner of the room, and in another corner—I was stunned—it actually collapsed.
It's not a description, it really collapsed.
A half-person-high gap was opened in the wall, and broken bricks and yellow mud were spread out on the floor. Looking out from the gap, one could see a clump of withered yellow weeds and the higher palace wall.
Palace wall.
