Outside the brightly lit classroom, there was snow unique to the south. It was soft, white, and light, and the snow seemed to be suspended in the air. Zuo Leng remembered that the first time she confessed to him was also on a winter night, with scattered snow falling. Standing under the lamp, Song Zihan looked so tall. He looked at himself squatting on the side of the street with a smile, stretched out his hand and pulled him up. Are you... Okay? His thoughts drifted back, and he wanted to say something, but he didn't open his mouth. . . .