A red string, a rough and out-of-tune flute. I have carried it with me for several years. I have long forgotten the face of the person who gave me the flute.
Who is it? Who is it that often comes to see me in this ward? With an old face, flowers
He has white hair and occasionally hums a few tunes.
The quiet and scary ward was filled with a hint of humanity because of his appearance.
Taste.
Some younger nurses told me that they were so envious of the relationship between us. Me
He didn't say anything, he didn't say anything, he just smiled.
Finally, I spoke, and that's when I realized that my voice had become very gravelly.
Dumb, like a person who has become seriously ill.
His face turned pale under my words, and I said, I don't know him...
Intention: Destiny is in your own hands