He smiled, picked up his pen, sat next to me, and wrote in the blank space of the picture---Sending lovesickness under the acacia bamboo, you know the exquisite heart---After reading it, I picked up the inkstone and poured ink all over him.
I looked at the top of the bed, never looking at him. "We can't be together, you are my brother." His expression changed, and he held his head in his hands, as if he was in pain. "Qingqing, stop talking..."
I saw him kneeling in front of the grave, scattering the wine on the ground, and said softly, "Qingqing, you like the wine made from green plums."