Lin Shuishui and Zhao Mengli stood there; though several years apart in age, they looked almost equally youthful.
Their appearances were much alike, like twin blossoms blooming from a single stem, each radiating brilliance.
Lin Shuishui, in her thirteenth spring, was like the purest ray of dawn, with a form as light as air, akin to the first white magnolia blooming on a branch in spring—untainted by dust, fresh and distinguished.
Her figure was painted by nature's most delicate strokes, sketching a maiden's unique gentleness and lively spirit; the slight swell at her chest hinted at unopened buds, her waist slender and soft, swaying like willow strands brushing water, adding an ineffable grace and elegance.
Standing there, she was a carefully carved painting—every brushstroke perfect—truly beautiful.
Qin Yu could see she was bound to be a beauty, yet he hadn't expected that, in just a year, the once naive little girl had quietly transformed into a graceful young lady.
