Wei Bumian
On a warm, sunny afternoon, I leaned against the bedside, casually flipping through a small booklet.
The door was gently pushed open, and his gentle, husky voice drifted over, "Sister, tired from reading? I made some snow pear soup—it's just cooled down. How about a sip to soothe your throat?"
I hummed in acknowledgment, and he walked up cautiously, carrying a small white porcelain pot.
I put down the book, happily thanked him, and lowered my head to drink. He had been watching me drink the soup with a beaming smile, when he suddenly caught a glimpse of that booklet, and his face went pale in an instant.
His voice came out dry, struggling to suppress other emotions, "Sister, are you... choosing a husband?"Please log in to continue the conversation.