The room fell silent, except for the sound of Cheng Zhirang's shoulders trembling, no one spoke.
Then Mu Qiu slowly, slowly placed her hand gently on his head, with a trace of tremor.
Still, no one spoke, but the atmosphere had already changed.
After a moment, Cheng Zhirang embraced the person in his arms, the two entwined like soft vines clinging to each other, tightly tangled together. Tears born from death, hearts dying as they live.
A huge crack had formed, only through years and years of mutual torment could they feel the pleasure as sweet as at the beginning, although distorted, they sought only self-deception.
After this embrace, Mu Qiu gradually improved, no longer staying in the room every day, often walking around Qingyin Pavilion, even visiting that small dark room.
But she wandered alone, without maids, only when Cheng Zhirang returned here, stepped forward to embrace her, would she turn around to hold his hand to walk together for a while.
