When dusk falls in Youzhou, he will always sit down at the base of the wall holding a clay pot, rubbing his fingertips on the rough clay wall, as if touching someone's silent face.
The paper money has been burned for thirty years, but the moonlight of the past can always be seen in the ashes.
The candlelight flickered that night, and my sweaty temples stuck to my neck. Yan Ci looked at the person beside her, her voice was as soft as if she was afraid of breaking her dream: "Now... What is our relationship?"
Yan Jin took the scattered coat, took out the sachet embroidered with lotus flowers from her arms, put it to her lips and kissed it gently. The moonlight passed over his reddish ears, casting a gentle shadow on the sachet.
"The sachet contains a secret relationship," he said.
But later the sachet was empty and the uniform was rotten. Only this clay pot is left, containing the past that he dare not speak of.
The passers-by in Youzhou City only thought he was a madman. They watched him whisper to the clay pot and listened to him humming untuned funeral songs. No one knows that hidden in the jar is a piece of snow that has not yet fallen, a person who has not returned, and an elegy written with the blood of a sorrowful army.
Until one day, a ranger stopped and asked him: "What are you waiting for?"
He raised his eyes and saw that the north wind was picking up paper dust and scattering it all over the sky like snow flying backwards.
"Wait for the trees and flowers to bloom, and wait for them not to return." He said, but he hugged the pot tighter.
In the jar, there seemed to be a sigh gently responding.
Purpose: Heroes should not be killed unjustly
