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穿史者的残章
A Word Of Inkstone
When I was dying, the rain outside the window was beating on the window lattice, like my pen that has not stopped writing for half my life. I looked at the unfinished "Historical Fragments" on the table - I spent ten years trying to record the stories of those little people forgotten by official history, but I couldn't finish it after all. My fingertips touched the ink on the page, and in a daze, paper embers flew into my nose, carrying the aroma of ink. When I opened my eyes again, I was instantly enveloped in a biting coldness and the smell of earth and blood.
When I was dying, the rain outside the window was beating on the window lattice, like my pen that has not stopped writing for half my life. I looked at the unfinished "Historical Fragments" on the table - I spent ten years trying to record the stories of those little people forgotten by official history, but I couldn't finish it after all. My fingertips touched the ink on the page, and in a daze, paper embers flew into my nose, carrying the aroma of ink. When I opened my eyes again, I was instantly enveloped in a biting coldness and the smell of earth and blood.