The term "death marriage" abruptly sprang to mind, and immediately Ou Lan saw a scene unfold before her eyes: withered vines, old trees, crows at dusk, ancient roads, west wind, a thin horse, a lone grave amid the wild grass, and white flowers.
Zhan Lingtao, who had been eagerly awaiting Ou Lan's response, suddenly felt a chill envelop him. Ou Xiaolan's face visibly cracked and shattered as if a withered hand had swept across her beautiful features.
Zhan Lingtao was terrified and nudged her anxiously, "Ou Xiaolan, what's wrong with you? Are you sick?"
"Ah," Ou Lan, who had gotten too absorbed in the role, suddenly snapped back to reality as the illusion before her vanished like the clearing of clouds and fog, "Cough, it's nothing. What were you saying just now?"
"I was saying we have three days off. What do you want to do?"
