They were born on the same day, same year, same month, same delivery room, only thirty-six minutes apart.
My name is Zhili and her name is Shuolun. From the moment I grabbed her finger across everything, they were destined to be entangled with her for the rest of their lives. She taught me how to identify my heartbeat, established my perspective, wiped my tears with a neatly folded handkerchief, and fixed my sixteen-year-old ring finger with a ring made of dog tail grass.
I thought we were destined to never be separated, from the delivery room to the grave, but she was sick. By the time I found the address and flew there, it was June 21st, our common birthday - leaving me.
She left a letter: "I will spend your birthdays with you from now on. If I can't, just think that I can't meet you anymore." She left for a year, and every year on June 22, the gift arrived on time. Ring. One after another, her name is engraved on the inner circle. Before she died, she made a list that lasted until I was seventy. She had planned every day for the rest of her life when she should receive gifts, but she had not planned for herself to survive.
Intention: nostalgia