The slight coolness lingering on the fingertips is the tiny fragments that once bloomed in the years.
Halfway through the window, Lu Cai is eagerly waiting for the snowflakes that belong to Rong Jin.
On the stem of memory, the flower called Liujing blooms quietly at the edge of the blue spring called Fusheng.
The fragrance that was soaked by the heavy rain was even more revealed under the name Rong Jin. Who was it that played the blur of years and wrote the Sanskrit sounds that Queque poured out in fragments? Finally, in the luxuriant place of time, she became thin and beautiful on the ground.