The year when I first met her was a year of frequent wars and locust infestations. It was a cold and miserable winter.
I killed a lot of people. I don't remember who I wanted to kill, but it was just a lot.
Including her.
She panicked and wanted to run away, but I didn't give her a chance.
She was wearing a pink dress, lying in the snow, with blood flowing out from behind, like a big peach blossom that had been trampled into mud.
She wasn't important at the time.
Years later, when I look back, I only remember this point. This memory, like a dusty pearl, becomes brighter and more precious when I caress it and care for it.
Intention: May you be diverse