The wind of April blows into the arms of May. Seven days in a row are the joy of you and me. There is a little warmth of the sun in the cold wind. The snowflakes of January float into the arms of willow buds. The secret love of January turns into the longing of July. Our meeting is probably fate. Watching the cherry blossoms ten miles away and the starry sky thousands of miles away, we quietly record our little life.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
