The first time I met him, it was snowing heavily and he saved me. The second time I saw him, he was drunk and fell under a tree full of lotus-like petals, letting the white petals fall on his body. He looked so beautiful, like a beautiful painting. The third time I met him, I picked the first red wintersweet that bloomed for him in the snow. It was as red as blood. He smiled and put it in a vase on the table in his study. The fourth time I saw him, he was captured and sent to the army. Many people said that he would never come back because he looked like a scholar. . . . . .
