I finally finished "Charm·Anonymous" and it feels weird.
Because writing this story is beyond my ability to control words.
Writing slowly, bit by bit until today, I admire my own will for the first time.
I persisted very hard and told myself that I must try to write it out.
I originally wanted to give up. Until that day, I found a pergola on the road I passed every day. I always thought it was an unknown vine, but that night, it was very quiet, with orange lights, and suddenly I smelled a faint fragrance. I looked up and saw white and yellow honeysuckle filling a small patch of sky.
Then, suddenly I understood something.
Some fragrances are unobtrusive and must be released slowly.
I'm not a talented writer.
There is sweat behind every story.