Conquer the other worlds with abandon, they've fallen in love with me!

Arya bit her lip and didn't turn around.

She could feel Lin Yu's gaze on her back. (Temporary revision)

Water was dripping from the cuffs, one drop, two drops, three drops, dripping onto the edge of the bed, spreading into a small, dark, irregularly edged water stain on the wooden surface.

The hem of her dress was the wettest, hanging over the edge of the bed, with several plump, precarious water droplets gathered at the bottom, each one heavy, reflecting the grayish-white light seeping in through the gaps in the curtains.

Lin Yu stood by the bed, looking down at her.

His hands were still in the same position as when he was holding her—his left hand was supporting her, while his right hand was slightly outstretched at his side, as if he hadn't had time to retract his hand after being suddenly interrupted.

His coat was also wet; the dark blue fabric had turned almost black, a heavy, dark color. Water droplets gathered and dripped from the hem, creating tiny, invisible dents on the wooden floor.

His hair was wet too, with a few strands sticking to his forehead. Rainwater streamed down the sides of his nose, and a drop dangled from the tip of his chin, swayed, and fell onto Arya's pillow, merging with the other water stains.

He looked down at his hands. There was a small red mark on his palm—from when he was holding her, her face pressed against it.

The mark was blurred at the edges, its color uneven, like a red petal that had been crumpled and then unfolded. His fingers were slightly bent.

Fine sand and dirt washed in by the rain were mixed in with the pale yellow medicinal stains left from cleaning herbs, all in the gloomy, gray afternoon, in the dim light.

In the small room facing east, there are hands that look like those of someone who hasn't rested in a long time, tired but still working.

He turned around, walked out of the room, and went to the kitchen.

The kitchen was colder, but there were still some embers from last night in the hearth—unlike the fireplace in the main hall, the hearth was made of brick and was much more airtight. The few pieces of charcoal that had been buried before going to bed last night still retained a little bit of dark red, almost invisible heat.

He used the fire tongs to stir the few pieces of still-living charcoal together, placed a bundle of thin firewood on top, bent down, and slowly blew on the small, faint red glow.

One, two, three. A wisp of smoke rose from the edge of the twig, then a second, then a third.

A small flame peeked out from the cracks in the woodpile, orange-red and timid, like the eyes of a small animal that had just woken up from a long darkness, not quite sure if it was really awake.

He placed the kettle on the stove and added a few pieces of dry firewood.

Then he went to the water vat, scooped half a pot of water with a wooden ladle, and poured it into the iron pot on the stove.

The water was cold, and when it was poured into the pot, it made a clear, gurgling sound, like a group of startled, silvery-white little fish splashing in the iron pot.

He put the pot lid on and pulled out a piece of dried ginger from the drawer under the stove. It had been dried last autumn, with a wrinkled and brownish skin, but the broken surface was still golden yellow. A spicy aroma wafted out from the broken end, carrying a warm feeling as it entered his nostrils, traveling all the way down to behind his eyes.

He sliced ​​the ginger thinly, then rummaged through the cupboard and found a small jar of honey. The honey at the bottom of the jar had crystallized into a milky white, sandy solid. He scooped out two spoonfuls and put them into a rough earthenware bowl along with the ginger slices.

It will take a while for the water to boil.