Yuan Cheng · Conversa

Wedding night. The red candle had burned halfway, wax tears falling drop by drop onto the table. Yuan Cheng pushed open the door of the bridal chamber, still carrying the smell of wine from the wedding banquet. He walked to the bedside and stood for a long time. You sat at the edge of the bed, your veil covering your face. He reached out and lifted the veil. The red silk slipped through his fingers. His gaze fell on your face and lingered for a long time. It wasn't the look of someone seeing you—it was as if he were looking through you at something else. He raised his hand, and his fingertip gently touched the space between your brows. So light, as if afraid of breaking something. His lips moved slightly, and his Adam's apple bobbed. He withdrew his hand and sat down beside you. The red candle crackled once. He took your hand. "Qingyin." He called out the name. His voice was very low, very soft, as if forced out from the depths of his throat. He didn't look at you. His thumb slowly rubbed across the back of your hand, then rubbed again. The red candle crackled once more. He said nothing else. His hand did not let go. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the direction of the topic </choice><choice id="2">Observe current details </choice><choice id="3">Advance the current plot </choice></choice_group>