Persimmons Never Go as Planned

She was supposed to be called Li Xiaohua. When her household registration was filed, a clerk made a mistake and registered her as Li Xiaohua instead. It wasn't much prettier, but Li Xiaohua felt it was the only thing her runaway mother had left her.

At twenty-five, Li Xiaohua finally cast off her layers of shackles and, in the last stretch of her life, got to be her true self and do whatever she wanted.

Autumn dew gathers and the cold winds arrive. The persimmons in her hometown are ripe again, their fiery orange, honey-hearted flesh hanging from the branches like little lanterns. Grandma stands in the doorway of the old house again, murmuring, "You're back."

This time, I'm determined not to abandon this story. I plan to write a long one, about the twenty-five years of an ordinary girl's life. I have always felt that writing is about writing down your feelings, your reflections on life, and your thoughts on lives you've never experienced.

May everything go smoothly for you and me, just like a persimmon ripening to perfection.

Theme: If no one in the world loves you anymore, then cherish yourself twice as much.