A year later, in the depths of winter.
The snow fills the sky, like smoke yet not smoke, like fog yet not fog, drifting and swirling as it falls on branches.
The piercing cold wind cuts to the bone.
The festive cheer of the new year has yet to dissipate. The calls of street vendors rise and fall as they roam the alleys.
In Yunqi Pavilion, the best quality charcoal burns warmly.
The girl bent over the desk has a delicate face, adorned in Su Embroidery with a dark floral jacket and a red skirt hemmed with beads and gold. Her hair is in an intricate bun, lips red and teeth white. One could hardly imagine how lovely her smile must be.
In her hand, she fiddles with a letter that came from Shengjing.
For over a year, Cui Yun has not visited Fengzhou.
The letters he sends, one each month, have never stopped coming. But skimming over the same old lines again and again, Shen Hua had grown tired of them long ago.
