Last year, today, in this door, the faces of people and peach blossoms reflected each other's red. I don't know where the human face is, but the peach blossom still smiles in the spring breeze
He is the most perfect man in her writing, but she cannot be the happiest woman in his arms...
Is it possible that the same wounded heart can warm the other person so quickly, still elegant in white clothes, then
That's her favorite...