This matter of A Luo leaving, A Yin discovered on opening her eyes. Some people, when leaving one's life, had a sense of ceremony; the rustling sound of sand would sweep across the bottom of the heart, like a rough cleaning rag erasing the traces. What was irritating was that, when she'd appeared, there wasn't necessarily an equal reminder, such that even her existence was quiet and noiseless, like some sort of indifferent person. As usual, A Yin shuffled about in her shoes as she got up, the knotted buttons from bottom to top gathering up her figure; seeing that the hour was still early, she washed her hair, and then, towelling her dripping hair, she sat before the mirror and applied her makeup. These brows, ah, and these eyes, ah, they were truly, truly exquisite; the brows were like the curve of laugh lines when one smiled, and the lips were like the cinnabar between one's fingers as they read, and the fluid glance was like the ripples that spread when one made tea, ...