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On the eve of the Spring Festival, Shi Nian'an's wounds had finally mostly healed, and the bruises on her face were almost invisible.
On the streets, no matter where you walked, it was a spectacle of colorful lights, a jubilant sea of red signifying the nation's fervent celebration of the Spring Festival.
Xiang Wan was at home, helping Zhang Ma cut window flowers. In past Spring Festivals, Zhang Ma had always cut them by hand, saying it was more meaningful than buying them, and Xiang Wan, having been influenced by her for so long, had also learned to master the skill.
As the two of them were engrossed in their cutting in the living room, Zuo Xingyun entered, bringing the chill of the outside with him: "What are you doing?"
