"The comrades and friends around me are leaving me one by one. Now, I really miss them." The old man Li spoke, his words filled with nostalgia. At this moment, the old man was no longer the mighty general commanding thousands of troops, but just a lonely old man.
Li Zhaojun paused her hand that was fanning, her eyes filled with indescribable emotions. After hesitating for a moment, she turned her other hand over and held the old man's hand.
"Jun'er, Xiao Fan," the old man Li, with some unknown strength, pulled their hands together to the middle, placing Ye Fan's and Li Zhaojun's hands together, and then gently patted them.
The leaves of the phoenix tree separated the midsummer sunlight and sky. As the wind blew through, the green leaves danced gently, and the summer cicadas in the shade began to sing.
In this midsummer afternoon, Ye Fan could feel Li Zhaojun's hand, held in his, trembling slightly.