The sound of rain against the oiled paper windows was sparse and stretched, as if it were the scenery that Jing Lixue had longed for in her dreams.
Often, when she woke up in the middle of the night, she would find herself missing that particular evening.
She still remembered how thin and small she had been on the evening she met Xu Yuan—her hair dry, wearing tattered clothes, her little hands dirty. Yet, his eyes were calm, and even at a young age, he was serene as an old monk.
She lay in his broad chest, wrapped in a warmth she had never known before, but as sleepiness overwhelmed her, she struggled not to succumb to sleep.
By the time she opened her eyes again, the young cultivator had vanished like a wisp of smoke in her life, disappearing in a blink of an eye.
But on the ground, he had left a dagger for protection, an amulet that hid her presence, and some dry rations.
