At the end of their activity, everyone else filed out of the door, but Yajing left through the window. She had a white crane flying from a distance, but no news like a handkerchief arrived on my desk with the wind. She often pats the crane's head gently and disappears into the clouds. There is no doubt that this is all my way of turning monsters around like a hard-working scholar in a Chinese studio. I always secretly call Zhao Yajing someone who should be compared to Xianhe.
Conception: