The Trajectory Space

If life could only remain as it was at our first meeting, why must the autumn wind lament over the painted fan?

The moonlight in my heart and the cinnabar mole are both memories that are hard to erase.

I can no longer tell what is real and what is not. Was she the one who fell ill, or was it me?

Am I real, or is she?

If only I had understood my own heart sooner, perhaps we could have had a future.

This novel and its characters are entirely fictional. Any resemblance is purely coincidental. Do not imitate.