Without help for seven days, the smoke from the cliff fortress had already turned into frost. Cheng Jin leaned on the ruins of the collapsed command post. The cold wind carried the smell of scorched earth and blood into his tattered military uniform. The wound on the left shoulder no longer bleeds, and is only covered with a dark red scab, like an old scar burned into the flesh. The thumb of his right hand rubbed the corner of the letter. The ink was blurred by blood and sweat, and the writing was blurry like an unfinished dream - "If I can't go back, look at the pear blossoms in Jiangnan for me." He didn't sign it and he didn't send it. It's not that I don't want to, it's that I don't dare. Afraid of sending it out, it will really become a farewell. He was afraid that someone would read it for him, cry for him, remember this name for him - Cheng Jin, a name scrawled as "killed in action" in the battle report. In the distance, enemy artillery fire blasted scarlet light on the ridge, like the earth breathing. He raised his eyes and looked at the sky dyed red by the war, and suddenly remembered that when he was a child, his mother was drying pear blossoms in the courtyard. When the wind blew, the snow-white petals fell on the top of his hair.
