(Hundred Years) (A consultant and her clients)
When dusk spreads over the eaves of the corridor, the iris flowers always cast lavender shadows in her hair.
Lu Jianwei's studio is not well-known, but there are always people coming there following some kind of secret aura. Holding the half-opened flowers with her fingertips, she listened to the visitors talk about the engagement contract that was wetted by the rain, the secrets shattered in the dark room, the sighs hanging on the edge of the tall building - those unspoken longings all turned into tangible shapes in her light purple eyes.
Some say she can make withered love take root again, others say she knows how to mend broken hearts with moonlight. There is always a celadon vase on her desk, with "unreceived flowers" that will never wither inserted in it, with words like morning dew condensed on the petals: "You see, those things you ask for but don't get are the answers hidden in the folds of time."
When the last wisp of smoke melts into the night, she will take off the silver tassel on her temples and write today's story into a book with a gold cover. When the ink spreads on the paper, the iris bushes outside the window sway gently, as if someone is whispering in response:
"All belated perfections were once unopened moonlight."
