Fu Han stared blankly at He Xing. When the breeze blew, the tear that had not yet fallen from the corner of her eye had already dried, leaving her eyes uncomfortably unable to open or close.
He Xing had once again approached Fu Han; he reached out, intending to stroke her hair, but his hand only brushed the soft gauze.
But that soft and gentle gauze felt like thorns, harshly pricking his hand, and he quickly withdrew his hand in shock.
The two of them, one seated cross-legged on the bed, the other standing silently by the bed; one looking up, the other down; one face unseen, the other filled with grief.
Another wind passed, and Fu Han shivered. She finally spoke, "He Xing, if you want to know, you might as well ask Xia Ning and Xia Cheng first, lest what I say differs from theirs and you suspect me of slandering them again."
