Jiang Zihuan spent ten years escaping from the mottled dream that Cheng Zong weaved for her.
She regarded him as the only good tree to live on, and carefully gave him everything she had.
The good trees cover the sky and the sun, blooming with dazzling brilliance, but the tiny moss flowers looking up at it are still hidden in the dim corner.
He wouldn't save her again, she knew it.
So she pieced together her fragmented self bit by bit and moved forward in the mud. Divide, separate, recreate.
No one can stop her from running towards everything she desires.
Intention: Look forward