For a period of time, he suddenly lost the desire to express himself. He painted only because he had to, not because he wanted to.
Qi Zhibai couldn't hear what he was saying at all. All his attention was fixed on the person standing in the snow.
Large flakes of snow fell on her body in her light-colored coat, on her dark hair, and on her delicate eyebrows.
Qi Zhibai just wanted to engrave this scene in his mind. After seeing her put down her hand, he suddenly moved and trotted to her side.
A person who could stay in the studio for more than ten days without going out, at this moment, ran at the speed of a 100-meter sprint.
Yun Shuning walked forward leisurely. Although it was snowing today, the weather was not cold. The snowflakes fell on her face and she felt a kind of tenderness.
A kind of tenderness that belongs to winter.
Just as she was about to reach her destination, a strange voice suddenly appeared behind her.
"My muse, oh no, that beautiful lady, may I have the honor of speaking to you for a few words?"
Yun Shuning looked at the breathless person who stopped in front of her, with a slight puzzlement on her face: Is he calling her?
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