Outside the small courtyard of the Qin family, this may not be the most beautiful place, but it is the best place, with a kind of vitality, a gentleness, as if blooming and withering are waiting a lifetime for someone to return.
Outside the fence, there is a very large tree, the species unknown, with a canopy like feathers, the flowers turning white and pink, and a long row of chairs below, seemingly generous and thoughtful for passersby to rest.
Qin Yu is that passerby tonight.
She stood outside the fence for a long time, took a few steps, circled back, then walked over again, wanted to push the door, then turned back, and finally sat on the chair, letting her whole figure be enclosed under the floral feathers.
The moonlight is unclear, she is unclear.
The flower language is inaudible, the low sobs are inaudible.
