I listened to the old clock ticking, but my time only stayed at this point; I looked at the lily of the valley blooming shyly outside the window, but my fingertips could not touch it; I felt the refreshing wind caressing the dome of the sacred temple, but my blood was far away from it. There is no trace of crow green in this world in my eyes. In this world, Rong Mo is just a withered skeleton (Dark series, independent story, raised by Qing Shui)