Xiwei

Wang Sirong stood in the center of the black machine, with falling petals and ancient trees behind him. He still held a sparkling cigarette between his fingertips. His half-draped eyelashes looked at the withered yellow on the ground, like an ancient painting. He stood there desolately in the wind and rain, then raised his eyes and looked to his side. The ashes on his fingertips were blown away by the wind when he was about to fall to the ground. He looked at her so far away and yet so close to her. He lowered his head and laughed. This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.