The prisoner caught my attention from the moment she came in, for no other reason than because she was a woman.
You know, the prison I am in is known as the "Nineteenth Level of Hell" in Mongolia. No matter how powerful a craftsman or a bloody man you are, as long as you enter, within three hours, you will beg for mercy and compromise. Over the years, there has been no exception.
What is her identity? Ordinary people are not qualified to come here.
The cold moon moves the shadows of the flowers to make love, the ripples are quiet and the water is soft and clear.
For many years since then, when I occasionally closed my eyes, her voice would still ring in my ears, as if there was only an iron fence between us and she was sitting opposite me.
She said: "Have you ever seen snow? I'm talking about the snow in Lin'an. It was the winter of the eleventh year of Shaoxing..."