At the turn of spring and summer, on the outskirts of T city.
The poppies all over the mountains and plains are as white as snow, pure and beautiful.
The man, dressed in black, stood in a corner of the mountain with tears streaming down his face.
"Yi'er, I have planted a lot of poppies. But why did you leave me and never come back?"
I vaguely heard the gentle yet decisive words in my ears: "Xiao Jie, do you know that the flower language of white poppies is - forgetfulness, love of death."