On that final night, Chen Yi had a dream.
The images in the dream were hazy and indistinct, just like many dreams that fleetingly pass by and fade upon waking. Chen Yi's dream was no exception.
He could only remember a gravestone standing upright on the ground, square and solid. Fireflies darted and hovered around it, and heartbreak grass grew abundantly at its base. The soil was muddy and damp—when he looked down, he realized it was wet with his own tears.
On the gravestone, rows of epitaphs were carved, but the only inscription he could clearly see read: [Chen Yi's Wife Yin Weiyin's Grave].
Chen Yi's heart sank, as if the entire world had shattered. All words were swallowed by the murmuring wind.
In the end, he could only shakily produce a hairpin, trembling as he buried it under the gravestone, into the earth.
He hadn't had time to treat her well, and now they were separated by life and death, parted forever.
