"Innocence"—if you wrote it out, it'd take just a few strokes of ink on a thin sheet of paper, a few lines in …
"Innocence"—if you wrote it out, it'd take just a few strokes of ink on a thin sheet of paper, a few lines in a poem, light and delicate, and that would be enough to capture the word's gentle meaning.
But in real life, innocence is heavier than gold, heavier than iron. It can keep you from moving forward, make it hard to run away, make your tears silent, your sighs absurd until it finally strangles you in the chaos of the world. And when people walk past the body, five out of ten will mock, three will sigh, and two will curse.
Isn't it strange how something so light could be so heavy?
Qin Ruolan had seen many people die because of their innocence, and heard too many whispers around their graves.
And what about this one?
She'd used $N to get what she wanted; she was the one who used people, yet she didn't want them to die.
That word, "innocence," written in ink in the history books, was it ever just ink? How many people's stories are buried under that black? How many traces of blood are hidden beneath the words?
She'd seen wealth and known that innocence, when it falls on a person, is heavier than gold, and yet, more precious too.
So precious that sometimes, Qin Ruolan found herself worrying. Would this person, too, become just one more spot of blood? She lowered her eyes, brushed away the stray drop of ink that had fallen onto the word "innocence" in her book.