The sun hung low in the sky like blood, and the evening clouds flowed like a river.
Beneath the large window, in the gradually darkening twilight, Tong Hua sat still as water, her expression serious, leaning against the sofa facing the elevator, dignified as an oil painting.
Regardless of the fragrant tea in the air, the sounds of games from the television, the short videos playing on an old phone, or even the snack shelf in the corner, none could shake her focused mind.
After undergoing a period of bathing, fasting, and intense concentration, she had reached a state of unity with her surroundings—neither sorrowful nor joyous, her heart was peaceful.
At this moment, she felt only one thing.
—Now, I am frighteningly strong!
Amidst the chaos, her heart was as calm as still water.
She plucked one petal from the bougainvillea that she had brought up from downstairs, her gaze distant.
She waited for the wind to rise.
“What’s wrong with her?” Old Zhang sipped his tea, glancing at Xiao An in confusion.
The young boy, whose wrist still bore the scars of past injuries, paused his game and turned to look back.
After a long hesitation, he lowered his voice, “Since this morning, she’s been like this. I checked it out on the search engine... it seems like a terminal illness.”