I once thought that Wu Yan was the cleanest person in the world.
He would embroider tuberose for me in the moonlight, and the tips of my ears would be as red as if they were dripping blood; he would repair the bundle that he had saved for three months into a suet jade hairpin, and clumsily put it in my hair, saying, "Wait until I come to propose marriage."
But when the servants of the Su family broke into the broken house, he was dragged out. When he looked back at me, his eyes were like a foggy lake.
Three days later, news came from the mass grave—someone saw a hand as white as paper sticking out of the soil, holding a half-embroidered handkerchief.
It rained heavily that night and my window paper had a hole in it.
A hand stained with grave grass and mud was pressed on it, eyes covered with white mist looked through the hole, and a hoarse voice with an earthy smell called me word by word: "Ranqing."
It's him, but it's not him.
He remembered my name and the square veil, but he forgot how to smile and the warmth that a living person should have.
But I looked at the mud on his fingertips and suddenly thought: Even if he crawled back from the soil, he is still mine.
Intention: strong