Su Ming'an couldn't open his eyes.
Regrettably, upon reverting, he was still in a period of slumber. But this was anticipated.
A young girl stood beside him, gently holding his hand.
Yet he couldn't open his eyes, couldn't tell her—I've already known everything. He could only remain asleep, remain asleep—until everything happened again. He couldn't even express—how he already knew all this.
The feeling of oppression weighed on his heart like a heavy stone; he even wanted to tear open his eyelids, tear open his lips, using his blood-stained eyes, using a hoarse voice—to inform her, I've realized, I've already understood everything.
But he couldn't do that.
It was as if he was enveloped in a silent shell, a thick shell blocking his view, stifling his voice, restraining his movements—he was like a butterfly that couldn't break through its cocoon, struggling to the verge of suffocation.
