In the English countryside in the eighteenth century, Sir Leon Ashford drew the last portrait of a woman who could never belong to him at the end of a laurel-lined corridor, and then turned around and married the well-matched Cecilia Grey. After three years of marriage, he dedicated all his tenderness to memories - the faded sketch of Isabella in the study, every laurel tree planted by himself in the manor, and the whispers he poured into the void while drinking alone late at night. Cecilia always stood quietly two steps away, serving him wine, lighting lamps, and ironing the clothes that were wet by the rain. Like the iris in the corner that she had buried casually when she first got married, she did not fight for it or snatch it, and only grew green in the corner where no one was paying attention.
Intention: We always want to catch the moon in the water, but we forget that the people around us are the real moon.