That year, Fang Qingmei was sixteen.
Seeing Fang Qingmei drunkenly lying under the plum tree, still holding the plum branch in her hand and humming a tune, Chen Fengzhang lowered his face involuntarily, gently licked the green plum with the tip of his tongue and then held it with his lips. The corners of his eyes and eyebrows were as warm as water.
The red makeup is delicate and beautiful, and the wedding dress is as gorgeous as fire.
Amid the sound of joy, he looked at her with a smile on his lips, and a crisp and hesitant voice from a certain year, a certain month, a certain day sounded softly in his ears:
When I was young, I lived in Changqianli, and my childhood was full of guessing. The man came riding a bamboo horse and went around the bed to make green plums...
NOTE NOTE NOTE: This article is short.
A new featurette to this article: Passionate people are always annoyed by ruthlessness, this is Fang Qingmei's post-marriage story~
Intention:
