About three years ago, I picked up a dying rose at the sewer entrance at the corner of Xiangyun Road. But I think now she is flourishing, fragrant and beautiful, and I am running this flower shop called "Shi Fang" on the street corner where I first met her.
Flowers stained with morning dew are sold here, as well as stories about the joys and sorrows of the world are stored here. Maybe it's someone's late-night monologue, or his unfinished love letter. If you are willing to pour your thoughts into ink marks, you can exchange them for matching flower branches here.
There is a black notebook standing on the empty space on the flower stand on the left side of the counter. If you happen to pass by, or you may be moved by a faint scent, you might as well stop and stop. There are several pens placed in the pen holder on the wooden table. You can soak in the scent of warm tea in the afternoon and spread scattered memory fragments on the blank pages of the storybook; then choose one from the bouquets available in the store and let your body temperature revive those unfinished monologues. If a certain paragraph of text happens to reflect your palm print, please accept the long-awaited flower as my modest token of credit for your story.
Mission: Stories can heal all wounds