After I died, my betrothed moved his beloved into our home.
When she said, "It stinks," he crushed the jasmine flowers I'd planted with my own hands, all for her sake.
Then his beloved wanted a drink, so they dug up the Daughter's Red I'd brewed myself, saving it to drink on my wedding day, and drank it.
Afterward, she complained that it tasted awful.
To comfort her, my betrothed even spent three days and nights comforting her in my bed.
If his beloved hadn't casually asked, "Where did Chen Sui Sui go?"
I think they might have forgotten there was someone like me in the world.
Oh, right. There really is no one like me in the world anymore.
