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In the depths of the palace, a lady was singing an old yet simple tune, her voice sounding weak yet far-reaching.

Meng Fuyao's heart skipped a beat and felt goosebumps on her skin. From the corner of her eye, she spotted a flash of light. Tilting her head, she saw two narrow streams of water flowing down Zhan Beiye's face, while he was intently listening on the wall.

The tears gathered into a drop of water on the face of the man who never cried, and slowly, it fell.

That drop of water reflected the moonlight, and it was frighteningly bright.

Meng Fuyao pressed her fingers into the wall.

They were a pitiful pair of mother and son in the royal family.

Day and night, the mother did not sleep, and continuously sang in the garden that was nearest to the wall; a wall away, the son was tear-stricken, listening to the yearning voice of his mother who was so near, and yet he could not meet her.