Seven years ago, she tore up her confession letter and threw it into the sky, letting the rain wash away everything, while he watched it all silently.
When we met again seven years later, she was the queen of haute couture, and he was a down-and-out racing driver with a broken right hand; when others called him a waiter, his brother shouted with red eyes, "My brother is a god on the track."
A folding umbrella with "79" engraved on it, and a track run with the left hand.
For seven years, he had made his secret love the only path leading to her, telling her that the path of his heart was only aimed at her seven years ago.
The countdown to the July rainstorm, this time, the end is the rest of my life.
