"The Flower Language of Bai Lanjin"

When the ceiling fan of the high school entrance exam stirred the smell of ink and blood into a whirlpool, Lin Xi's 2B pencil suddenly broke. Across a row of desks, the new transfer student Shen Wanrong was pressing the chiffon cuffs with her left hand - the dark red stain reminded him of the bayberry wine jar that was broken at the neighbor's house last night. When the invigilator took away the Chinese paper she handed in, he saw the bruise on the back of her neck looming in the stand-collar uniform, like the blurred ink on rice paper. The first time their badminton rackets collided was in the equipment room during the rainy season. The YONEX ball bag given to her by Shen Wanrong's father exuded the smell of sandalwood paperweights, and when she lifted up her bangs to wipe her sweat, Lin Xi caught a glimpse of the unfaded mark of the ruler on her temple. "The education method of my entrepreneur father is to use a belt to measure the deviation when reciting the "Book of Rites"," she sneered as she used alcohol wipes to wipe the bruised knees in the locker room. The fingers that broke the string of the racket were stained with ink - the remnants of being punished to copy the "Book of Filial Piety" 300 times this morning. The school badminton hall in late autumn smells of mothballs and blood. When Lin Xi taught Shen Wanrong to smash the corridor surveillance camera with a backhand smash, the girl was secretly replacing the Moutai wine her father had given to the leaders of the Education Bureau into iodophor. They invented a way to use a badminton tube to send secret messages: he stuffed a copy of his mother's medical certificate, and she sent a torn family photo in return, with the words "He broke my left ulna last night because I missed three points in the monthly math exam" written in blood on the back of the photo. The roar of the subway tunnel became the accompaniment of the confession. On the night of the beginning of spring, Shen Wanrong saw Lin Xi's fingernails branded on the wet glass in the speeding carriage of Line 3: "For example..." The sudden darkness swallowed up the second half of the sentence. When the train lights restarted, her condensed tears fell on the "Silent Car" sign, turning into a twisted rest. The heavy rain on the day of Jingzhe washed away all metaphors. When Lin Xi rushed into the emergency room holding the jade badminton pendant left by Shen Wanrong, the local news was scrolling on the screen - the daughter of a well-known entrepreneur fell from the group building and died. Among the belongings was a black tea-stained "Collected Works of Zhuangzi". The inside page was written with mascara: "He locked me in the attic where I memorized the Tao Te Ching, and the caged thrush pecked off my college entrance examination admission ticket." The autopsy report showed that there were 21 old and new fractures in her left arm, arranged in the shape of a moon. When Lin Xi used a badminton racket string to cut off the cross necklace of the nurse on duty in the morgue, the forensic doctor was taking out nine gold-plated cufflinks from the girl's stomach - the dress her father wore when accepting the "Charity Entrepreneur" award. He swallowed the fragments of secret literature review materials and saw through this carefully planned sacrifice in his near-death hallucination: she used his poverty to reflect his sin, he used her scars to feed his salvation complex, and the unfinished confession in the subway tunnel was nothing more than an oxygen mask exchanged between two broken souls before falling into nothingness. When the smoke from the crematorium rose, Lin Xi threw the championship medal into the furnace - it was the prize for Shen Wanrong's last city league before her death. The gilt surface was engraved with "Campus Mixed Doubles Champion." He roared at the incinerator, and suddenly understood that the broken lead on the day of the second-year high school exam was originally an oracle: the two side-by-side answer sheets had long been marked with zero points by fate, and they had just written the first draft of the memorial poem in advance on the composition grid paper with blood and tears. In the distance, there are unfinished badminton balls passing through the haze, and the snow-white feathers are peeling off piece by piece, just like the magnolia petals she secretly sandwiched in his "The Birth of Tragedy" during the rainy season, and now they have finally rotted into mud. Concept: Love is enviable but full of thorns