Looking at those words, Runsheng felt as if Yin Meng were standing right in front of him, stamping her foot in anger and rolling her eyes.
At his ear, he could almost hear the Sichuan dialect that always bubbled out of her whenever she got worked up, the final tone stretched and raised.
Normally she would add some affectionate little taunt at the start — something like “gua wa zi,” “ha er,” or “bao pi long.”
Runsheng reckoned the reason none of those were written was that Yin Meng, at that first moment, hadn’t decided how those dialectal bits should appear on the page.
Besides, keeping up that kind of interaction already took everything she had — like the way she’d forced herself to maintain being in the yin state back then.
Still—
Runsheng liked that a one-sided memory could be turned into a two-way exchange.
Even if it was only that one sentence, the feeling was completely different.
Besides, his brain only wanted to be used right now in the day.
One sentence was enough.
Anything more, and his head probably wouldn’t be able to hold it.
Yeah,
maybe the other side couldn’t write much more either.
The wind blew again, erasing the marks on the ground.
It was as if nothing had ever appeared; the divide between yin and yang remained stark and unbridgeable.