When the Frost Flowers Wither

The knife's room is made of paper The sound of the blade cutting through the air was particularly harsh in the silence. I huddled in the corner of the papered room, watching the cold-light dagger penetrate the fragile paper wall again and again. Every crack was like a twisted mouth, silently mocking my helplessness. This room is the shelter I built with my own hands. At first, I thought that using soft paper could isolate me from the dangers of the outside world and wrap myself in the illusion of warmth. The paper exudes a faint fragrance of ink, as if it can filter all malice into tranquility. However, the knife appeared without warning. Its owner's cold eyes easily shattered my illusions. The paper wall was vulnerable to the blade, just like my cowardice and escape, being torn apart without mercy. Every time the sword flashed, I could feel the biting chill. But I know that running away won't solve any problems. Trembling, I picked up a piece of broken paper on the ground, with the beautiful vision I once wrote still on it. Perhaps, it's time to face this knife and face the fear that I have always had. I slowly stood up and looked at the knife stabbing me again without flinching. When my fingertips touched the cold blade, I suddenly understood that this room made of paper needed to be strengthened with courage instead of hiding blindly.