This voice seemed to drift from a distant horizon, entering his ears, and his head became very painful.
A girl's voice counting echoed in his mind—
"One, two, three, four..."
The voice held the unique beauty and liveliness of adolescence, but was very far away, so far it seemed separated by a whole space-time.
Sylvan Cheney's head hurt intensely, and sweat beaded on his back.
He suppressed his restlessness and rummaged through the car for a medicine box.
With a sip of mineral water, he took a painkiller, leaned on the driver's seat, and let out a heavy sigh.
Where his sight could reach, Jasmine Yale was already walking further and further away. She walked slowly but with a light step, her floral dress seemingly turning white, the kind of white adored by seventeen or eighteen-year-old girls.
Soon, Jasmine Yale's figure blended into the night.
Sylvan Cheney looked up, seeing only the boundless sky.
Thin clouds floated softly in the sky, stars shining bright.
