No matter how much snow falls from the sky and covers my head, I still feel sad.
The snow will melt sooner or later,
just like those fleeting moments of tenderness.
In the end, there is no escaping it.
I want to lock you away, to make you mine alone.
And yet I don't want to lock you away, because you would no longer be yourself.
Chang Cong buried himself in the snow, as if murmuring, "The golden lock has bound my entire life."
Looking at the hazy expanse of white, countless snowflakes competed to drift down.
How strange.
Why did the tears frozen long ago by the cold
still manage to slide down my face?
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