Beside the red stove on a winter night, Zuo Yan tied a red rope around Luo Shengsheng's wrist and said that he would plant pomegranates all over the courtyard and wait for the spring to make wine and the autumn to peel the seeds.
At that time, there was laughter hidden in the chirping of cicadas, oaths wrapped in the fragrance of cinnamon, and even the moonlight seemed to be soaked in honey.
Then the beacon smoke suddenly rose, and Hu Ma crushed Chang'an's dream. He said goodbye to the silver hairpin and turned around to go to the battlefield, leaving her holding a half-square embroidered lotus purse to count the wind and frost in the crowd of refugees.
The wild roses in Yucheng bloomed and faded, and the stone tablets at the Heroes' Tomb grew cold and cold. She searched through thousands of names, but could not find those two words.
The red rope was worn into ashes, and the white hair was covered with green hair. She was still pouring a bowl of water from her hometown in front of the tomb in the autumn sunset. It turned out that there was some waiting, and it was never waiting for the returnee, but living as evidence of his existence. Let every piece of falling snow and every wisp of cinnamon remember that there was a young man who used his life's heat to warm her half-life's cold.
Intention: In the broken traces of time, we can see the faint persistence of individuals in the torrent of the times - if love cannot walk together, then use memory as a monument and let waiting itself become eternity.