Only at this moment did he realize that when a person is in extreme pain, hate, grief, and anger,
they are indeed tearless!
Not a single drop.
His stern face had lost all its color long ago, and he collapsed to the floor pale as paper, struggling to rise and check if his woman was still there, but ultimately he fell helplessly.
Beneath him, a swath of crimson.
The flowers have withered away, the spring red too hastily gone, helpless before the cold rain at dawn and the late winds. Rouge tears, left behind in a drunken stupor, when will they be shared again? Such is the eternal sorrow of life, like the endless eastern flowing water.
"Lian Qiao, it's been almost six years since you left, and I've been doing very well, how about you?"
The faint glow from the mobile phone screen reflected on Xing Liehuo's still stern face, which was as emotionless and rigid as a sculpture of ice—his face betrayed no signs of pain—only the hand tightly clutching the phone shook slightly.
