In the twenty-sixth year of the Republic of China, on the morning when Lu Chenzhou left Suzhou, the drizzle washed the bluestone road shiny.
Lin Qingyi stood under the eaves of Ruifuxiang, watching him adjust the collar of his military uniform for the last time. On the dark gray cloth, the major's epaulettes were stained darker by the rain. "When I come back," when he turned around, he put a pocket watch into her palm, with a small portrait of her embedded on the inside of the watch cover, "then I will accompany you to eat squirrel mandarin fish at Songhelou."
"Okay." That's all she said. The newly arrived materials in the silk and satin shop were being unfolded one by one, and the water-red soft satin was very much like the sunset on Qixia Mountain that night - that day he held her hand for the first time and said that her hand was so small and should be well protected.
Three months later, Hubei's battle report was sent to Suzhou. Lu Chenzhou's troops were completely wiped out while defending the outer positions of Wuhan. The last news was that after writing a letter home in the trench, he rushed towards the enemy tank with explosives in his arms. His name was printed on the newspaper, next to it was the list of fallen soldiers, densely packed in small regular letters, like the rain during the Qingming Festival.
