The snow on the eaves has melted and accumulated, and over three hundred years, frost has formed in the cracks of the tiles.
When Jingzhe Rain shattered the reflection on the bluestone slab, he bent down to pick up a ball of white hair, and his fingertips touched the body temperature that had not cooled down three hundred years ago.
So, she hid her tail and imitated the fireworks in the world, and he understood the spring in the paw prints in the fragrance of ink.
It turns out that there is some waiting, it is the snow falling into the annual rings, and the lines of reunion have already been written.
