Later, Jiang Chan would often think of that April of that year, the startling glimpse in the bustling theater, with pink makeup and water sleeves, elegant style.
After that, neither the Zhang Sheng in the painting book nor the Zhang Sheng in the ancient books was more stunning and incomparable than the one she saw at the theater that day.
"The match that I least expected was a perfect match, but it tore us apart forever."
When she said this, it was already decades later.
The theater is gone, Yingying is dead, the matchmaker is gone, Zhang Sheng, her Zhang Sheng, has also left her.
She finally waited for the peaceful age, but that person and those people were all wiped out in the troubled times.
"I'm sorry, I can't let him go." She has been thinking about it for decades.
So.
"Have you ever met Zhang Xiaoru?"