The afternoon sun is so scorching that there is no shelter.
Ye Fanshuang sat on a cold, uncomfortable plastic chair, his back straight as a sword in its sheath, with a deliberate stiffness.
She had long since gotten rid of that damn wheelchair, and her legs, which had once been broken but had now healed to the point where there was almost no visible trace, were now wrapped in expensive custom-made trousers.
Her fingertips were unconsciously tapping on the equally cold stainless steel table in front of her, again and again, making a subtle, regular, yet hollow, heart-pounding "tap, tap" sound.
Across from them, separated by a thick explosion-proof glass covered with tiny scratches, sat Su Xinghui.
Ye Fanshuang's gaze fell on the other side of the glass, as if he was examining an old object that had been covered in dust for many years and was suddenly unearthed but had completely changed beyond recognition.
The gray, baggy prison uniform that didn't fit her at all was like a giant sack, covering her head and completely swallowing up her once exquisite curves, leaving only a baggy grayness.
The chestnut-colored curly hair that was once carefully permed and dyed, as rich and shiny as seaweed, is now as withered as autumn grass, sticking lifelessly to the sweat-soaked forehead and neck, with a few strands of hair clinging to the pale, almost transparent cheeks.
Her cheeks were deeply sunken, her cheekbones were unusually prominent, there were dark circles under her eye sockets that could not be removed, her lips were cracked and chapped, revealing a sickly grayness.
The air was as stagnant as a solid, with only the exhaust fan humming monotonously and tiredly in a corner above my head.
Su Xinghui placed her hands on her legs, her fingers nervously twisting the rough fabric of the prison uniform, her knuckles turning white from the force.
She tried to raise her eyes several times, looking into Ye Fanshuang's calm and deep eyes on the other side of the glass.
Finally, the cracked lips moved very slightly.
The voice was as thin as a mosquito, with a hoarseness after a long silence and a suffocating timidity. It came out intermittently from the small communication hole on the desktop:
"Ms. Ye... Miss Ye..." The moment she uttered the name, her body shrank slightly.
She paused, swallowed hard, her Adam's apple rolling as if she was swallowing a red-hot charcoal, "Thank... Thank you... for coming..."
Ye Fanshuang's fingers rested on the table, tapping rhythmically and hollowly without a single pause.
She didn't even lift her eyelashes.
His gaze was still fixed on a certain empty space on the table, as if Su Xinghui's voice was just insignificant background noise in the visiting room.
This utter indifference was more oppressive than any scolding. Su Xinghui's knuckles tightened around the hem of her clothes, practically digging into the fabric.
Her breathing became rapid, her chest heaving slightly under the loose prison uniform, and the tiny glimmer of light in her empty eyes began to shake violently.
She lowered her head suddenly, her forehead almost hitting the cold table, and her shoulders trembled uncontrollably.
"I... I know... I'm not worthy..." Her voice was shaking badly, with a strong sob tone, but she suppressed it tightly, "... I'm not worthy of asking for your forgiveness... and even less worthy... of calling you..."
She paused, as if the name burned her lips, and finally, with a faint courage of desperate gamble, she spat it out: "...Fan Shuang..."
"Every frost".
The name came out from Su Xinghui's cracked lips, like a speck of dust falling into a deep pool.
Ye Fanshuang's eyelashes trembled extremely slightly, so fast that it was almost impossible to catch.
Ye Fanshuang tapped the table with his fingertips, and the rhythm did not change at all.
Her face turned slightly to the side, and her eyes, like deep pools, finally fell on Su Xinghui's face accurately and without any emotion.
There was no anger, no disgust, not even a ripple. Just a thorough, cold scrutiny, like assessing the residual value of an object.
Su Xinghui tried to find a trace of the past on Ye Fanshuang's face, even a hint of sarcasm or hatred, but there was nothing on that ice field.
She collapsed in the cold plastic chair, her silent sobs turned into suppressed whimpers, and her shoulders shook like a candle in the wind.
I don’t know how long it took, maybe a few minutes, maybe a century.
Su Xinghui's sobs finally subsided and turned into intermittent gasps that exhausted all her strength.
She roughly wiped the tears and snot from her face with the sleeve of her prison uniform, her movements numb and almost self-abuse.
When she raised her head again, the glimmer of light in her empty eyes seemed to have been washed away by tears, leaving only a desperate, almost crazy calmness.
This time, her gaze did not dodge, but went straight through the scratched glass and fell on Ye Fanshuang's face.
Her lips opened and closed again very slowly.
This time, there was no hesitation, no crying, only a calmness that was almost a whisper, yet as clear as thunder:
"Ye Qingliu..."
These three words, like three red-hot steel nails, wedged deeply into Ye Fanshuang's eardrum.
"He..." Su Xinghui paused, her hollow eyes fixed on Ye Fanshuang, a complex feeling surging in them - was it a test? Was it fear? Or...
A morbid obsession that she herself was not even aware of?
"…Are you…okay now?"
"despair."
Ye Fanshuang's index finger, which had been hanging above the table, suddenly knocked down on the table the moment he heard the name "Ye Qingliu".
Immediately afterwards, the five fingers of the left hand that had been placed on the table and maintained a restrained posture suddenly retracted inward.
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