Standing in the autumn wind of Zhaoling, seeing dead branches and leaves from time to time, Zhong Hui suddenly remembered that twenty years ago on the campus of Renhe University, who wrote the poem about the orioles in March, and the spring in the small town in the south of the Yangtze River, the beauty of the eyebrows. Kiyohiko, who came back from the library, told her that there was a purple wisteria tree in full swing.
But now, for the first time in my life, I have set foot in my hometown of Chang'an. In front of me is the mausoleum of the Han family in the lingering light of the west wind. She looked back at Li Qingyan, who was standing in the shadow of the huge stone monument, thoughtful. In the dusk, the long pavilion became shorter and shorter, but she knew that this was her return trip after twenty years.