This is a city that never snows all year round. It is like a child forgotten by God. No matter how lonely the late autumn leaves die on the winter branches, the light kiss of snowflakes can never be printed on the pale forehead.
Yan Chen folded his hands and knees, leaning against a quiet oak tree. His chin was slightly raised, and his eyebrows were deep.
All around are paper cranes scattered on the ground, like fragments of withered hearts.
It's night, without stars or moon.
Yan Chen closed his eyes. The world was dark, but very real and safe.
The fingers slide over the dry lines, through the dense growth rings, through every spring, summer, autumn and winter, squeezing out youth.
Youth, cramped, real.
The frivolous years of youth will end as soon as you become sensible.
Snowflake has forgotten that we once laughed, cried, and loved...
Intention: