After a night of heavy rain, the sky now was so azure, the sunshine so bright. The sunlight streamed into the white hospital room, revealing Qiao Qianning's face as pale as the bedsheet she lay upon.
Qianning blinked, finally opening her eyes. All she could see was whiteness—the white walls, the white ceiling, the white sheets—only the person sitting on the chair in the distance was gray.
Beigong Cang was sitting in the chair, leaning against the wall, apparently asleep.
As her thoughts gradually returned, the events of last night remained crystal clear in Qianning's memory. How could she possibly forget? The pain was excruciating, as if her intestines were being scraped out, forcibly torn from her body.
Her child—her child that had been growing inside her for two months—was now gone. She wasn't a good mother; she couldn't even protect her own child.
With these thoughts, Qianning sobbed softly.