Chu Yu left a month ago, and the sound of leaf flutes would still occasionally echo throughout the estate. The faint and piercing melody was so melancholic and persistent that, after listening for a while, it even gave the illusion of heart-wrenching sorrow.
Not only did he play daily and frequently, but he also played in different places, making it impossible to avoid the sound.
However, no one dared to object to the person playing the leaf flute; it wasn't as though they had a death wish. If he wanted to play, let him play. At most, they would plug their ears and not listen.
Rong Zhi leisurely sat amidst the chrysanthemums, and he took a newly steamed crab, methodically cracking open the shell with his extremely agile fingers. In the blink of an eye, the crab meat, white as jade, was exposed. He dipped it in the ginger vinegar set before him on the long table, then slowly brought it to his mouth.
