"I didn't eat," Feng Yueming said in a low voice.
"Why?" Crystal clear tears slid down Ruo Ling's beautiful cheeks.
Feng Yueming hooked the corner of his lips. "My birth was an accident to begin with. Even my own life is beyond my control. This is quite alright, I feel relieved myself."
"You've said so much, but isn't it just because it's Su Zhishui's blood? The things Su Zhishui wanted, you couldn't give, because you had given everything to Mi Yao. Now, for the sake of Mi Yao, you're ready to give up your own life?"
Feng Yueming pursed his thin lips, then said nothing, and walked into the cottage inside.
...
Mi Yao was still curled up in a corner, seemingly having maintained this posture without moving all day long. She was stiff and numb, like a sculpture.
Feng Yueming sat by the bed, holding a piece of white paper in his hand. He lowered his handsome gaze and folded the paper into a white dove.
