When snow falls into a dead man's eyes, there is no sound.
When Xu Qiye woke up, he first heard a very light knock.
When, when, when.
Not a clock. It was a bronze medal hanging under the shaft of the cart, being blown back and forth by the wind. The bullock cart overturned on the edge of the ditch, half of the medicine boxes were scattered into the snow, and the red cross was soaked in mud and water and turned black. Xu Qiye lay on his back between the wheel and the frozen soil, with an already stiff hand pressed on his chest.
The owner of that hand was wearing the gray cotton coat of a messenger. A piece of his left face was cut off by shrapnel, and his lips were still moving.
"Bridge……"
