Zhong Qing treaded up the stairs in her cotton slippers, step by step.
Pat-a-pat, pat-a-pat.
What appeared to be light footsteps were in fact, for her, as heavy as carrying a thousand pounds with each step.
As she drew closer to the second floor, the scene in the stairwell came into her view.
Zhong Jiping lay motionless at the junction between the bedroom door and the corridor, dressed in the robe she had prepared for him.
Zhong Qing felt as though she had been nailed to the spot, momentarily unable to move forward.
It was an unknown length of time before she regained her senses and continued to move her feet, approaching the prone Zhong Jiping step by step.
Finally, she stood before Zhong Jiping.
Gazing down at the man sprawled on the floor like a dead dog, Zhong Qing felt as if her chest was stuffed with cotton, unable to breathe.
She was really so foolish and naive.
Such a simple thing, and she had only learned it now.