Tang Xin still remembers that evening many, many years ago.
That day, the sunset poured in from the corridor like blood, and outside, there were sounds of children playing.
Meanwhile, she was curiously watching the little boy standing before her, who, holding his mother's hand silently, only looked at her with dark eyes.
"Tangtang, from now on Little Hong will be your brother..."
"Uncle Fang and Aunt Fang met with an accident and went far away, unable to return..."
"Get along well, don't bully Little Hong..."
...
Tang Xin recalled the scene at that time, unable to help but lightly curl her lips:
He was actually quite cute back then.
She sat upright at the desk, holding a feather pen—this outdated writing tool once made her quite unaccustomed, but after several months, she had finally become adept at writing like the locals. Only now, she had maintained this posture for quite a long time, merely staring dazedly at the few pages before her.
