That lonely figure under the scorching sun in midsummer later became a pain in Pan Jing's heart. It could not be erased and it could not be cured. It always popped up inadvertently, often making her burst into tears. That summer, in that small world, he used the last remaining heat of his life to water the roses in the garden. The roses, whether milky white, pink, or golden, clustered on the branches. With the breeze, the fragrance floated far away.
Intention: One person's waiting, a group of people's youthful growth