This story was discontinued. I wrote it nine years ago, and I’ve returned to writing. If I have time in the future, I’ll finish this book, bringing closure to the regrets of my youth.
A beauty mark in the palm, tears like cinnabar.
What seems uncertain may be fate; joy and woe lean on the sorrow of love.
Red hands, yellow wine.
A xun flute carries longing that binds the heart; the wind brushes the willows, gathering them together, then scattering them apart.
The beauty is drunk, flowing clouds shattered.
In a desolate place, the fragrance of tea splashes through the air; with tear-stained rouge, she stands beneath the setting sun.
A glazed cup, a golden hairpin.
That year, on the Lantern Festival, we held the daylight long in our hands. Who remembers how desolate tonight’s words sound?
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