She had clearly cried.
But the man didn't speak again; it seemed as if he had fallen asleep. Mi Yao retreated to a corner of the room, huddled down, and hugged her knees in a daze. She had grown accustomed to this position during this period. It was as though only this posture could provide her a sense of security.
The room fell into silence.
...
The next morning dawned.
Feng Yueming slowly opened his eyes. After more than ten hours of sleep, his exhaustion had receded, and a fierce light sparkled in his deep, narrow eyes.
His throat was very dry, so he stuck out his tongue, trying to moisten his parched lips, wanting water...
He turned over and then sat up on the bed. There was a teacup on the bedside table, and he reached out for it with his long arm.
But the movement reopened the wound on his back. A layer of cold sweat instantly covered his forehead. His hand swayed, and the teacup rolled onto the carpet.
