Ten years later, Lin Qian opened three rusty iron boxes under the cherry blossom tree at her alma mater: Shen Xingye's piano score always remained in the unfinished movement, Lu Huai's guitar had broken its favorite string, and in her sketchbook, under the trampled cherry blossom painting, there were three more lines of faded writing - "I'm sorry," "I love you," and "Forget me." The cherry blossoms fell again, and she finally understood that some love is destined to a flowering period that cannot be reached even through time and space.
