The Qingse resents the distant night, and the wind and rain mourn around the strings.
Zheqing remembered those hands all her life. The long white fingers brushed away the snow and ice from her face, and the warm palms pressed against her forehead. In the haze, she tried to open the corners of her mouth to smile, but her face had long been frozen by the wind and snow, and no matter how hard she pulled the corners of her mouth, she only showed a strange expression. The owner of the palms frowned slightly, untied his shawl and wrapped it around her body, and carried her out of the snow, and out of death.