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The setting sun was like blood, the sandstorm was endless, and the world was murky.
The desert extended forward, reaching all the way to the horizon, where at the junction of the sky and the earth, firm dunes rose and fell.
Under the irradiation of the setting sun, looking from a distance, everything was a vast expanse of thick golden haze.
Suddenly, a sand whirlwind surged, swirling directly upwards.
A figure burst from the sandstorm and finally landed steadily on one of the sand dunes.
The sandstorm grew fiercer, boundless and fluctuating, making a person seem so minute within it.
Zhao Qingmei looked up at the setting sun above.
The beautiful warm orange light sprinkled on her face, almost breathtaking.
Tender were the years, and stunning was time itself.
Time seemed to briefly pause beneath the sandstorm.
Zhao Qingmei gently took out a paper figure from her bosom, her eyes full of soft light.
