Poetry is a distant scenery, easily invisible.
Han is nourishing and tolerant, tenderizing the years.
He Zhilin had kept his eyes open countless times, enduring the darkness of the night, and then stared blankly at the rays of the rising sun climbing up the window sill step by step. Clean and bright, it feels like slowly seeing Jiang Shihan's beautiful scenery clearly. It's really, really fascinating.
If she had looked back one second earlier, her heart would not have belonged to someone else.