The Wind Continues to Blow

Cheng Lin knew Mu Xiaofeng's body under that white shirt better than anyone else. He had carefully polished every inch of the person's skin in front of him, day or night. In the past few years since he left, he thought of Mu Xiaofeng more and more often. But the most important part of Mu Xiaofeng's memory left in Cheng Lin's mind was not his body. It was a cherry decorated in the dessert. He finished it slowly with his mouth in his mouth, but said shyly, "So this is what cherries taste like." There was a bottle of red wine on the dining table. He opened it with a standard and elegant gesture, "I used to work at the Opie Hotel and was trained." It was a certain dish in a Chinese restaurant. He looked at the ingredients carefully and said with a smile when he came out of the restaurant, "I've learned it. I'll make it for you when I go back." Even a book or a cloud or rain. Mu Xiaofeng is like the invisible yet ubiquitous wind. Bit by bit, inch by inch, drop by drop, it slowly invades every tiny gap in life. It can't be washed away, washed away, or wiped away, it stays with me like a shadow. Just when Cheng Lin thought he was far away, he found that the traces of the wind in his life became increasingly clear.