It's raining in this world.
The world in the rain is gray, drizzling down, pattering on the black asphalt surface, on the charred and rusty outer shell of the armored vehicles by the road, on the green grass sprouting through the gaps of the metal casings. Through the sparse curtain of rain, Ban Xia can gaze at the layered buildings on the other end of Crescent Lake Bridge. It looks as though through frosted glass, under the curtain of iron-like, deeply condensed clouds, Nanjing City's cracked earth resembles a withered corpse. It's hard to say if it represents death or rebirth. Everything here is slowly collapsing, yet along the roadside, yellow and white flowers sprout anew.
She hums a song softly, some lyrics unclear, only the tune remembered.
The rain grows heavier. The girl straightens up and stands under the doorway, legs together, standing upright.
