Perhaps it was because she had been empty and lonely for too long, or maybe it was just an irresistible passion; Mo Hongyan compromised and followed her heart, her small hand pointing towards the direction of her room.
There, there lay the room she had shared with her husband.
Once upon a time, almost every night there, her husband would entangle her relentlessly, showering her with sweat, making her feel truly blessed.
But since her husband had died, it had been just her—every single night, all alone, no more happiness or joy, just a solitary woman guarding an empty bed, with a bitterness only she knew.
Although she managed to do some handcraft by herself, secretly indulging in shame, it could never compare to a man; every time after, it left her feeling even more empty.
