Perhaps it was because I was under too much mental stress and too tired these days that I started hallucinating.

She rubbed her eyes and went to add some coal to the stove outside, but her gaze fell on the table first.

Next to the pile of corduroy garments that had been cut in half, there was a small cloth bag.

It was a scrap of fabric she had left over from cutting yesterday. She remembered casually stuffing it into a drawer, but now it had been sewn into a crooked little pouch, with an awkwardly embroidered flower at the opening, the stitches so big you could fit a finger inside.

Ling Huanwu was stunned for a moment, then walked over and squeezed the purse.

It was bulging inside, and when I emptied it out, I found a few White Rabbit milk candies that she had hidden at the bottom of the cookie box.

That was the last time the supply and marketing cooperative made a purchase; she had managed to snag it and wanted to give it to him as a reward when he woke up.

Her heart skipped a beat, as if it had been violently struck by something.

With trembling fingertips, she stuffed the candy back into her purse. Her gaze swept over and she saw a silver thimble that she often used lying next to the sewing machine pedal.

She bent down to pick it up, but out of the corner of her eye she noticed a series of very faint footprints on the floor at the foot of the bed.

The footprints, covered in coal dust, stretched from the coal stove outside the cooperative all the way to the bedside in the office. They were so faint that they seemed like they could be blown away by the wind at any moment, yet so clear that they were blinding.

Ling Huanwu's breathing suddenly became erratic, and she turned to look at the coal stove.

The ashes at the furnace opening had been cleared away, revealing a small, dark red spark underneath. Next to it, the coal shovel she had polished to a shine now had half a lump of unburnt coal stuck to it, and there was a faint handprint on the handle.

Ling Huanwu retreated step by step, her eyes as if they were covered by something, and everything she saw was blurry.

In the enamel mug on the corner of the table, the wilted wild daisies had been moved. The petals that had been drooping were now carefully straightened, and there was still some wet mud on the rim of the mug.

She clearly remembered yesterday that she was so tired that she didn't even have the strength to pour water, so how could she care about these flowers?

Even the book "Dedicate Everything to the Country" that was next to her pillow was quietly moved.

Ling Huanwu suddenly pounced over and turned the pages one by one.

At the end of the story, the female protagonist never married after the male protagonist's death.

But where the ending was perfectly clean yesterday, a small line of text has now appeared.