After returning to the Xiao Family, Su Qingyue ground the ink in the master bedroom and quickly wrote on the rice paper with her brush. After finishing one sheet, she spread the paper on the table, one sheet after another. When the ink on the paper dried, she stacked them together.
Xiao Qinghe was weaving a bamboo basket in the yard. Looking through the open window, he saw his wife with her long hair cascading over her chest. Her penmanship was swift and elegant, her eyes focused intently on the tip of the brush.
Such dedication and concentration were utterly captivating.
He couldn't help but become entranced.
It was only when a gust of wind blew that he snapped out of it and continued weaving the basket in his hand. Yet he would often lift his gaze to peek at her, unable to pull away from her arresting presence.