When Guido Machiavelli pushed open the door of his father's study for the last time, he found floral curtains tied neatly on both sides. The windows are open, and the sunlight pours on the wooden lattice, gurgling along the red brick balcony, and shining on the papyrus covering the table.
The wind blew through the hall and swept away the two fluttering sheets. He leaned over to pick it up and recognized his father's carefree handwriting.
Youth is so brilliant,
But it is fleeting.
Joy must be immediate,
Tomorrow never comes again.