She had just finished writing the last word of "Indus Lost in Frost".
When I opened my eyes again, the smell of the wind had changed. It's not the heater in front of the desk, it's the moisture in the book, the frost in the book. She was lying on a strange couch, her body was not as heavy as her own, and her lungs were heavy with old particles.
There was a person sitting beside the couch.
Thin, silent, and all the softness between his eyebrows and eyes were only for her. Seeing that she was awake, the man curved the corners of his lips very gently, stretched out his hands, and tucked the corner of the quilt up to her chin - exactly the same way as the jacket in the dream was pulled up to her chin.
\\\\\\\"You are back. \\\\\\\" Bai Wutong said.
Qingshuang looked at her and suddenly understood the poem: The phoenix tree was half dead after Qingshuang, and the white-headed mandarin duck flew away without its companion.
It was written by her. But this time, when it fell on me, I realized how cold the frost was.
She didn't tell Bai Wutong that she was the one who wrote the play. She also didn't tell her that she planned to perform the play herself until the last scene.
Before her consciousness sank, she only had time to think of one thing -
It was cold on the road, she should have worn an extra layer.
Intention: Only by letting go can you be happy