Stories that are too late to be written will be forgotten. When I still remember them, it is like once again covering the fallen flowers that have withered in the past with residual red.
The ending of the story may have been decided, and the gap in the middle will be continued by fate.
I put the memories together piece by piece and wait for a season when flowers bloom.
(Note)
[Suddenly I encountered a dead tree and it was spring, and I smiled and passed by. Close your eyes and listen to the spring evening breeze, and you will know that regrets in the world are all gentle.
Those years are unforgettable, real or fake, in short they are beautiful.
Intention: A moment of beauty