Chu Yu had just reached the door when Liu Sang had already opened it, standing by the doorway gazing out steadily.
On the not-so-spacious cobblestone road outside, there was a sedan chair with a figure leaning casually against its side, sitting on the sedan's pole, leisurely singing a song. She was singing a children's song, a tender Jiangnan tune spoken in the soft Wu dialect, gently carried over by the spring breeze.
That voice, once capable of making countless men lose their souls with its mesmerizing softness, was now filled with sincerity and warmth. The owner of the voice was singing while intently staring at Liu Sang as if looking at a treasured possession lost for a long time.
The once dazzling beauty, now free of her former glamour, appeared pure and gentle, like an elegant lotus flower standing tall. This was a side of Zhong Niannian that Chu Yu had never seen before.
