The wooden box fell to the ground, and the silk scroll was spread out in an instant, and the deep and shallow ink marks remained fresh with age:
Thousands of feathers are like thousands of snowflakes, flying and falling from all directions. In such a fairy scene, only one figure emerges gracefully, dancing lightly like a crane, but the look between his eyebrows is one part clear and one part sad.
People couldn't help but reach out their hands to caress, but they stopped.
Why did a thousand feathers fall away and become ashes? After the ashes disperse, who will still be suffering and clinging to it, feeling sad and sad?