Jiang Nanshu held her palm tightly, her eyes sour and swollen.
She had spent eight years feeling like she was finally alive.
He had only bestowed a bit of favor on her, which she remembered for over a decade, while those who had died could just walk away without looking back, yet they still haunted her.
The first time she met Zhou Yanxu, she was only four years old, nearly freezing to death in the winter.
He was dressed in a white turtleneck sweater with a thick padded jacket on top.
His face was as bright as the winter sun, clean and warm.
His warm palm took her frozen little hand, his eyes filled with pity, "Why are you outside?"
Back then, Jiang Nanshu had never seen such a good-looking person; she looked up with her frozen face, her eyes moist, stuttering from the cold, "Who are you? Are you an immortal?"
So warm.
It was a warmth she had never felt before.
