In the quiet of his mountain home, he opened the diary. He read the little butterfly's childish handwriting, about the hardships of life, her resilient growth, and her radiant poems, until he reached the sudden fall that brought her story to an end and her grandmother's final act of following her in death. Again and again, his tears spilled over. He was shaken to his core.
He seemed to see the girl studying by lamplight, laboring in the mountains, and reciting poetry beneath the moon. Her life had fallen short, like a butterfly, over a cliff, but her soul, her poetry, her love, and her resilience bloomed eternally on these mountains, soaked with her blood and tears, like a tenacious dendrobium growing in a crack in the stone.
He walked to the edge of the cliff. The mountain wind howled past, seeming to carry the girl's clear, pure voice reciting poetry and her grandmother's hoarse, loving call. He softly read aloud the last complete poem in the diary, the one filled with hope. His voice mingled with the wind and drifted into the distance.
Closing the diary, he gazed at the endless green mountains and wrote on the final page of his manuscript: "The Butterfly Falling Over the Poetry Cliff was not written to record a death, but to celebrate life. Little Butterfly, your poems have become the soul of these mountains, and your story will live forever in people's hearts. May every unyielding spirit in this world be treated with gentleness. Rest in peace, mountain poet butterfly, and watchful grandmother."
This is a novel that will leave you in tears.
