Yin Tingxue fell ill.
She lay on the mat brought from home, breathing weakly, her fair face pale.
Countless tiny white flowers scattered, rushed by the wind, landing briefly on the stump before vanishing without a trace.
Her forehead burned fiercely; yesterday's chill had now turned into piercingly cold fever.
The gray tiles of Yintai Temple once refracted the afternoon sun, a stark contrast to its current dreary state. Back then, the servants and maids bustled through the temple gates; her mother would light incense with her own hands, kneeling on a cushion, reciting Buddhist Scriptures while gently patting her head. She was like a little wooden fish, obediently lowering her head, dozing off breath by breath.
