Missing is like a kind of wine.
Fermentation, precipitation.
Ferment again and settle again.
Until the aroma of the wine is strong, it seems that there is a lingering knot of sorrow that cannot be resolved.
Ding Ding felt that he was really drunk this time.
Tintin never thought that he would really see her again in this life.
Even just imagining it, Ding Ding felt like he was about to suffocate. . . . . .
Flowers bloom without a name, and flowers fall without a sound. . . . . .