In the Holy Land, by a lakeshore shrouded in morning mist, a white-haired woman stood quietly beside the old man, Jiang Qiu, beneath a weeping willow. Her presence seemed to melt into the morning's tranquility. Her hair was like frost—fine, soft, and lustrous—drifting gently in the breeze as if whispering tales of time. The white strands shimmered with a soft, silver light under the sun's caress, cascading down like a waterfall. It stood in stark contrast to her pale skin, revealing an otherworldly beauty.
Her eyes were deep and bright, like two clear mountain springs, both gentle and firm, as if they could see into the depths of a person's soul. Her long eyelashes fluttered like the wings of a butterfly, each blink sending ripples across the lake of one's heart. Between her brows, there seemed to be a faint trace of melancholy, yet it was masked by her benevolent gaze, making one yearn to uncover the story behind them.
