The peach blossom is tired of the purple wooden pen in the peach mausoleum, the black hair is covered by the thin snow, and the red dress is tripped on the road to the underworld.
Looking back again just for the cinnabar to lock the river, the purple wooden pen is placed on the small dressing table, quietly waiting for the peonies blooming from the ink pen
The branches and fireworks of Chang'an anchor the way home, and the ink of the wooden pen lightly renders on the white paper the three lives that surround the person.
Look at Taoling's sealed memories of his life and write them into a small book of history. As the pictures linger around the bones, they eventually turn into a memory that does not belong to him. Perhaps...
Maybe she or he has been waiting for you?