Forty-five years have passed, except for the gorgeous sunset that often takes care of itself and is enchanting, no one visits her in her faded waiting.
Today's sunset is as red as blood. Wan Ping held on to the carved stair guardrail, opened the window, and sat in the wicker chair. A tear suddenly fell from the sunken and chaotic eye sockets, and fell into her empty hand, as clear as before.
I love you.
Conception: