It was a sunny day when Cen Zhixia left.
Shen Zhici did not cry.
On the third day after the funeral, Cen's mother handed him a box.
Twelve letters, each with the same request written on the back: Open one every year on my birthday.
Shen Zhici thought the answer would be in the letter.
For example, "The person I like is you."
For example, "I was sick and didn't tell you."
But Cen Zhixia said nothing.
He just told the things Shen Zhici remembered in every letter seriously.
It seemed like he was afraid that Shen Zhici would forget.
It seemed like he was afraid that Shen Zhici would forget about him and it wouldn't hurt anymore.
But he didn't know that Shen Zhici remembered everything.
The clearer I remember it, the more it hurts.
On the day when the last letter was opened, Shen Zhici lined up the twelve envelopes in a row.
He looked at it for a long time.
Then he picked up the pen and wrote a line on a blank envelope
"Where to send the reply?"
After he finished writing, he folded the envelope in half and put it into Cen Zhixia's box.
No address.
There will never be a reply.
Well, the book is very sharp. If you have a weak heart, don't read it.
Of course, you don't have to press for updates. I don't have a contract as an author, and I don't have much money. I have to work, and I work very late. If I write after get off work, it may only be updated once a week, so don't rush me.
Intention: The deepest love is not spoken out, but hidden for a lifetime, and only dares to be known after death.
