It was a rhythm like a tempest. He felt as if he’d suddenly been enlightened; after more than three years, he had finally found the way to completely conquer love...
Yan Xixi was always quiet and peaceful. It was an extre sense of security. She felt the world had suddenly beco beautiful, fulfilling, and full of positive energy—as if, an orphan no more, she was no longer so lonely. Ti seed to have stopped. She would willingly follow him, even if it ant shattering to pieces. Perhaps, this way of "death" could even be beautiful... Li Ao once said that if one could choose the most delightful way to die... he would prefer this way. That was Yan Xixi’s thought at this very mont: if she were to die like this, it wouldn’t matter at all.
For a long, long ti, the air carried only the faint scent of callias, uneven breaths, and restless heartbeats. No one spoke, as if a single word would cause this utterly new joy to vanish into thin air.
Finally, the wind blew in through the open window. Outside, autumn insects humd, their song mingling with the faint scents of Phoenix Flowers and Marigold, and the peculiar aroma of figs just beginning to ripen. There was a fig tree outside the door, its fruits left untouched for a very long ti. Because no one picked them, they remained on the tree until winter, even after the wind had stripped all the leaves, clinging solitarily to the bare branches.
Her hair, damp and endearing, clung to her forehead and eyebrows, fanned out by the corners of her eyes, and spread across the pillow. She was curled up like a cooked shrimp, nestled obediently in his arms. Her sleeping posture was excellent; she never tossed and turned. Even her dark hair slled wonderful, still suffused with the faint scent of callias.
His face was wreathed in smiles, utterly relaxed. His large hand gently brushed the strands of hair from the corners of her eyes. "Xixi..."
"Xixi."
"Xixi."
It wasn’t for any particular reason; he simply loved calling her na.
Under the hazy light, she seed as pure and clear as jade. Though he had possessed her countless tis before, he still found himself repeatedly imrsed in the artistic beauty of this ’collection’ of his. It was like a calligraphy and painting enthusiast who had initially only seen the casual graffiti of passersby, then suddenly encountered the landscape paintings of Wu Daozi or Zhang Zeduan’s ’Along the River During the Qingming Festival.’ Only then would he sigh in amazent: everything before was substandard. The value of an art piece isn’t derived from the artist’s fa, but from its inherent preciousness. The value of a collectible lies in its appreciation over ti, its taste growing ever more refined. His aesthetic judgnt had suddenly reached its absolute peak. It was like the countless tis he had marveled in his heart: just when you thought she couldn’t possibly be more beautiful, there would always be new, even better discoveries... Just like now, the true treasure was only slowly beginning to unveil itself.
He was exceptionally joyful. She was flushed, but remained silent, simply feeling incredibly weary... a deeply contented weariness. Soon, she fell asleep nestled against him. He, too, was content and sank into a deep slumber.
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