The rain in Binhai City always washes things that shouldn't be washed:
Faded butterflies in children's drawings,
The coffee stains on the police badge,
And the birthmark under her collarbone that pretends to be a scar.
When policemen dressed in women's clothing break into life on bail,
When the shadow of the Ferris wheel covers the blank page of the diary,
Only then did they understand:
Every missing child's pillow,
They are all pressed with half a butterfly pendant that gets hot.
