Ever since Xueyao knew about the four powerful heavens positioned so high in the sky that they couldn't be seen even if one stood on the moon and looked.
That was where Yingyuan's late grandmother went after she passed away, and it was also where she would be going soon enough.
She had always admired poetry and words and longed to read and write properly and maybe, one day before she died, her works would be famous enough for one person to take a look at.
Among the many ridiculous poems she had once scribbled under a leafless tree with a twig on a pile of snow, there was one she considered her favourite.
As she watched the immortal drift farther away, she quickly wrote something she thought would make sense to everyone.
Life as infinite as the sun.
Days as meaningless as watching the cycle of Night and morning for a thousand years.
