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In the seventh year of Zhao Zheng, beginning of autumn has passed, and the world that has been thirsty for many days suddenly becomes foggy.
The autumn rain came late, and all the residual flowers in the garden were drowned.
Gu still felt headache when he woke up, got up and put on his coat and walked all the way along the corridor. Rain blows into the gallery from time to time, and there is an amazing coolness. A few newly blooming hibiscus have been wrinkled by autumn rain, and a few maroon solitary finches have landed on the branches of acacia trees, which sounds impatient and slightly lonely. The rain has fallen along the dark brown feathers and is soaked.
Gu has lived here for eight years. People are quiet and live like an empty shell, and the world is just a few words to her. She hasn't been out for a long time. Looking at the silent rain outside, she put on hemp fiber and went out.
There were few pedestrians in the street. Even if someone glanced at her, she pushed her hat lower, but she walked unhurriedly. On such a cold day, only the pub on the street has a warm feeling. Every time she felt that she was dying of silence, she would come to this pub, warm a pot of wine, set three or two plates of snacks and listen to people talking about the world, so that she could sit quietly in the dark.
She doesn't come often and is too lazy to talk. No one is curious about her life. Sitting in a bar, she sometimes hears people casually mention her husband. She also ...