Ten years are enough to smooth the edges of the mountain, but not a deep scar.
The cold rain is pouring, and the deserted mountains and temples are ruined. Shen Qiu huddled in the corner, wiping the hot forehead of her son with high fever in vain with his frozen hands. His heart felt like a dry well, leaving only a slight ripple of despair. The mockery of fate always comes at the most embarrassing moment - the voice that once announced her "death" with a cold "final letter" and pushed her into the abyss of eternal damnation, penetrated the wind and rain and rang at the door of the ruined temple.
"Little lady, do you need help?"
Li Yuchuan. The owner of this name that is unforgettable and hateful to her bones, holding a half-handled oil umbrella, wearing an old Confucian shirt that has turned white after washing, standing in the wind and rain ten years later with a look of desolation and wind and frost. He asked warmly, as if he didn't recognize the old friend.
Shen Qiu lowered his head and his fingertips were stuck in the mud. Close to her heart is the wooden comb that she has treasured for ten years - "Li Yuchuan·Chen Qiu" is engraved side by side on the back of the comb. Between the teeth of the comb, there is a concentric knot that the two of them made with their own hands, entwining each other's green hair. After all the ups and downs, it is still clear. It is the last piece of fiery evidence before she plunged into darkness.
However, a cold and dazzling trace tore apart all her disguises and memories.
On the shabby umbrella he held close to me, there was a deep scratch, soaked by the rain and extremely clear, just like the weeping accusation in the despairing dusk ten years ago: betrayal of the heart.
Intention: Self-reliance and self-reliance
