A bright window, the sound of rain in the middle of the night, the whistling of the Qiang flute, and a few people getting to know each other.
Wearing white clothes, she walked casually on the bluestone after the rain, and then looked at the empty mountains and bright rain behind her. The thousands of miles of mountains and rivers were like ink paintings, no match for the stack of rice paper in her hand.
For decades, it seemed that she had been writing about the world in front of the window with slightly condensed ink, while he had abandoned his cold black clothes and was wearing a green suit that was particularly warm, holding a cup of tea in his hand and looking at her.
She writes about the world, and he protects her.