The Trace of Snow: The faintly passing snow cannot speak, silently staging this selfless impulse. I see its crystalline soul dancing in the air, unable to resist copying this moment into my memory. The snow reflected by the street lamp is very pure white, slowly falling. I spread out my hands, letting the snowflakes gradually melt in my palm, turning into water droplets. With a tilt of my hand, it slides over my palm, drawing a cool arc. I am here alone, indulging in the long-lost beauty, without memories, without thoughts, only with a heart that has been hurt under the peaceful night.
At dawn on the street, I look back at the road I've come from, a row of messy footprints. I am happy and glad, for I am the first person to leave a mark in the snow, as if this street, this scenery belongs to me. Occasionally, I grab a handful of snow and throw it towards the river, occasionally put it in my mouth, occasionally write a few promises of fantasy in the snow. Just like this, I walk aimlessly.
In my impression, the riverside is the most beautiful place I have ever been to, not because of the scenery here, but because I left many memories here, some are beautiful, some are painful. Suddenly, I feel that people are like this, willing to exchange short-term happiness for long-term pain. Every time I come to the stairs here, many images always appear before my eyes. I held your hand and walked past here, my promise stayed here, my heart broke here...
Why do we have to overturn right and wrong to change all this? The forced feelings are still there. If memories are like disordered footprints in the snow, I will put an end to this story. Believe in the morning sun, it will still melt the cold in my heart. I quickened my steps, leaving these temptations behind, my heart is no longer here.
I remember someone told me that he went away and never returned in this river, but she would quietly wait every snowy day. She didn't wait for him, but for herself to become沧桑 (weathered). The sad music won't stop, should I continue writing this story without an ending? Should I use my spare time to do these things that can't be forced?
That old man told me her own story, she said that he went fishing by the river on a snowy day and never came back. Since then, every snowy day, she would sit quietly at the port, holding his photo and keep waiting. I told her that she should accept reality, but she said that she believed he would wait for her in the next life, so she had to wait for him in this life. Her words proved my foolishness, proved that I was not determined enough. I left here again...
My body is trembling, my heart is getting colder. Different destinies give two people who love each other different results. Who is muttering far away? From beginning to end, the same waiting, different endings. Who is shouting in the distance, calling for tears from their loved ones? The snow is too pure and sentimental, but it doesn't understand our hearts. The river water remains calm but doesn't understand our fluctuations. The footprints buried in the snow, I look forward to who will pass by again.
Suddenly, I remembered a poem I carved on the staircase: Your hand holding my hand, my face touching your face. Two hearts beat in the same rhythm, two pairs of eyes with the same gaze. You count the footprints you've passed, I recall the way I've come. I hold your little hand tightly, you get closer to my body. I know after this moment, I will go to a different world. You know after this moment, you will have a long wait ahead. We say goodbye in the snow, you see me off in the snow. We start in different directions, walking our own ways. Gradually disappearing on the horizon.
The snow gets heavier and heavier, the heart gets more and more tired. On the way back, I saw fireworks blooming charmingly in the snow, I couldn't bear to take another look, because I am alone.
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