The day she first met him, a silent snow fell in her heart.
From then on, seventeen years, 6211 days and nights, a grand and silent one-man show. She remembered his taste, engraved his name on her heart, held up cakes that he had not tasted eight times, and stepped into Wuhan, which she regarded as her hometown, countless times, but she never encountered the corner of fate; she never had the luck to meet; her affection was like the gilded hair flowing in the sun, only daring to twinkle in the faintest place; the lot she obtained for him was brought to the person he loved most.
Until August 1, the day after his birthday, which was also his wedding, she handed over a heavy red envelope with 6211 inside - that was the total number of days she loved him, and also the end.
In spring, there is no snow.
Therefore, there is destined to be no love between her and him.
We have never been exposed to snow, and there is no hope of spring snow.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
