"Are you Sister Qingzhu's daughter?" Ge Xiaotong asked softly.
Her voice was tender and pleasant to the ear; upon hearing it, Chiang Xiao's heart skipped a beat, and she remembered.
In her past life, during her college years, she had gone to visit her aunt at Deng Qingjiang's house one weekend and just happened to run into Deng Qingjiang driving a woman out.
The woman was pleading non-stop, repeatedly saying one thing: to think it over again and not to hurt the elders' hearts.
That woman's voice was so soft it seemed it could wring out water.
That was Ge Xiaotong!
So in her past life, Ge Xiaotong had sought out Deng Qingjiang. The elderly she referred to might have been her grandparents. But back then, Ge Xiaotong had dry hair like straw, a sallow complexion, and a thin frame—she looked like someone crushed by life, gasping for air.
And now, the Ge Xiaotong lying in the hospital bed, although pale and thin, still possessed the brightness of an eighteen-year-old girl.
