Frankly speaking, I have forgotten what Xin Yi looks like. I only remember that she was a girl who lived in my heart a long time ago.
I still remember:
There were so many nights that she leaned alone by the window of Fu Huo Ling, like an ordinary girl, wondering whether the missing moon should be fuller in Kaifeng, otherwise how could there be so many people staying there; wondering what kind of material the white clothes were made of, it was the kind of white that could not be covered by the moonlight and stars in the sky; wondering what the temperament of the moon was, how could it be so cold and cold, and silent after seeing the world of mortals.
During those days, she took a nap in the sea of flowers of Fuhuo Ling, dreaming about those dreams that she should have had in her prime, those dreams that were especially filled with morning dew and fragrance, and dreaming about those people who slipped into her dreams uninvited.