"I am an orphan."
Shen Qiunong was momentarily stunned. This voice earlier had been somewhat low, like it was deliberately muted, but just now, without that restraint, the voice was pleasant, youthful.
She sighed helplessly, "Poor child…"
Her hand was lifted by the other person, and then the back of her hand seemed to be rubbed with something—cool, with a faint, bitter medicinal fragrance wafting up to her nose.
She instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but the other person didn't give her the chance. Though the strength was gentle, she couldn't break free.
One hand was cleaned, then the other.
Though she couldn't see, she could feel it—the application was tender, as if the person feared causing her pain.
Since being imprisoned, she had been fed scraps and leftovers every day, subjected to the unrelenting surveillance and occasional beatings from the servants. Her heart had long grown cold.
