"An Keyang, I won't watch the red maples this year."
"I won't watch it anymore."
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I remember the first time they met, the man lowered his car window and asked her, "What's your name?"
Si Yue stood in front of the door of Lao Po's unit, waved and said, "Next time, I'll tell you when I have the chance to meet."
The second time in the teahouse, the man leaned on the carved stone slab and looked at her with no interest, and said in a cold voice, "Name." Siyue left someone else's name in the man's hand.
Later, one gave a fake name and the other did not say his own name. They just cuddled, entangled, and ambiguous with each other.
But God's will plays a trick on people. He is the future heir of the An family, and she is just an orphan girl who depends on others.
One wrong step, every wrong step.
Si Yue allowed herself to sink into this predicament of being unable to talk about love, sinking deeper and deeper.
Someone asked Si Yue who his favorite poet was, and Si Yue said maybe you have heard of "Gift to Meng Haoran" by Li Bai.
"Gift to Meng Haoran" by Li Bai
I love Master Meng, and he is known all over the world.
The beauty abandons the crown, and the white head lies in the pine clouds.
The moon is drunk and the saint is in the sky, and the flowers are not in your way.
You can look up to the high mountains and enjoy the clear fragrance.
Finally, she settled in the mountains, unable to see the sea, but drowned in the water.
I started to conceive of this book in April to commemorate Si Yue.
Stories have prototypes.
Any similarity is purely coincidental.
Intention: The kiss of fire and gunpowder disappears in the proudest moment
