The fog lingers in Tingxue Pavilion. Liu Yuan came back from the back mountain with a basket of honeysuckle vines in his arms, with mud on the roots. The pool in the side yard is steaming and the water makes a sound.
"Come here."
Liu Qingci didn't look back and held out the wooden ladle. Liu Yuan reached out to take it and touched his knuckles. Cold.
"Crush it and apply it on your shoulders."
Green juice was produced from the vine bark in the stone mortar, and the ends of Liu Yuan's eyes slowly turned red. He told himself that it was smoked. There was a sound of water behind him, and the hand fell down, and the fingertips brushed the corners of his eyes.
"Why are you crying again?"
Later, there were people from outside the mountain, sword light, and fire. Jiang Wantang guarded the side peak, fighting back wave after wave. At dawn, the sword blade was curled up. On the day we came down the mountain, the pavilion master asked where we were going, and she said she was looking for my mother's sword.
Liu Yuan didn't cry that night when Liu Qing resigned to deliver the medicine. Blood overflowed from the corner of his mouth, and Liu Qingci leaned over to block it. The surrounding sounds are far away.
Three years later, the letter came back: "Mr. Shen taught me how to write. When I write the word 'return', I always miss one horizontal line."
Liu Yuan handed the letter to Liu Qingci. The fog outside the window cleared.
Intention: There is warmth in a cold place, swallow but not swallow.