He let go and looked at me intently. After a moment, he took my hand again and held it to his chest, speaking as if making a vow: “In life and in death, we made this pact: to hold your hand and grow old together.”
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He blinked, then struggled to raise his battered left hand and gently brush my cheek. His lips parted: “Xiang'er, if...”
A thousand lifetimes of devotion: can this life repay it?
A thousand lifetimes of longing: where will it finally flow?
All that remains is this:
For whom does longing bloom red?
How did such deep love begin?
I ask you, when will you return?
I search for you in dreams, but find nowhere to go.
