Sigh the Wind

He opened the window and looked down. His eyelashes were wet from the spring rain. He frowned slightly and looked at the misty rain on the rooftop. It's like floating dew, illusory and ethereal, but incomparably beautiful. He stretched out his hand, broke off a flower that was leaning towards the window coffin, and sniffed it. The brocade pot made a beeping sound, so he turned around, lifted the lid and held the tea cup, which was hot from the heat. When he lowered his head, he seemed to be lost.