Sakura and Identification Sign

His name was lost in the war, leaving only his rank and number. She had danced a thousand deaths in the spotlight, but never truly lived. Two mutilated people met on an autumn night in London - he saw her light, she saw his abyss. The ring he gave was an identification plate, engraved with "If anyone finds this, please tell him that he finally learned to love." What she gave in return was a pair of dancing shoes that would never break. She said, "This way, no matter where you are, your feet will never hurt." More than twenty years later, he is still taciturn, but he puts the coffee in her accustomed place every morning. She still liked to stand on tiptoes, but every time she turned around, she would make sure he was watching. It turns out that love is not a grand oath, it is the scratches on the identification plate, the wear and tear on the dancing shoes, the fragrance of coffee in the early morning in Paris, the boat on the Seine, it is him who said "I will never be polite to you", and it was her who laughed "you are too stupid". Their story is a waltz without a final chapter. Officers and dancers, battlefield and stage, silence and tenderness. Every note is a love letter written by time.