Lu Mian's backdrop was a calligraphy and painting institute with pink walls and green tiles, flying eaves and standing columns, elaborately carved beams and painted rafters, and golden nails embedded in vermillion doors.
Beside her stood a persimmon tree, withered to the point of being only branches, its bare limbs like jade branches and beautiful twigs, a beauty of its own kind.
And she, in a black trench coat, stood quietly amidst this picturesque scene.
She herself was a landscape.
Mo Si hesitantly stepped forward, wanting to persuade her of something when his ears suddenly perked up, and he heard the sound of an engine, growing louder as it approached.
Soon, in no more than three seconds, a black jeep sped into view, a hundred meters from the calligraphy and painting institute.
The vehicle braked harshly, the tires skidding a long mark on the ground before coming to a complete stop.
