The first time I saw her, she was standing in front of me carrying a small box.

She just stood there obediently, looking at me with tender eyes. I have never experienced such personal tenderness before.

When I asked her to come over, she held my hand shyly. Perhaps it was because the night was too charming, I was actually a little moved.

In that dimly lit little room, we talked about everything from Kafka to Dazai Osamu, from Tagore to Van Gogh. Tenderness flooded us like a tide. I hope this moment will last forever, and I hope it will belong to me forever.

She is a beautiful white flower. I touch her beauty with my own hands, but I cannot pick up her imperfections. I think she must be free, and no external objects can restrain her existence. I just feel sorry for her fate. She is in the prime of her youth, but she has to bear heavy responsibilities. She has a father who is addicted to gambling and a younger brother who is less than one year old. All this should not be borne by her.

I want to take her away, take her away from this place, to a place without worries and pain, just us, only happiness.

But I underestimated her stubbornness. In the dim night, she rejected my kindness. Only then did I realize it. After all, she was a flower planted in a pot. Whether she bloomed or withered was not determined by the wind.

At this moment, I realized that what I was washing was not her feet but the mud of walking in this world. The only thing I could do was to leave an insignificant stroke in her best age.

The autumn wind knows my heart; it is gentle and affectionate. My love rises with the bell, and my heart is still burning with sadness when the bell stops.

The delicate little hand that strokes across the ankle takes away the day's fatigue and leaves behind the beauty of life.

At that moment, I looked into her eyes, those shy and smiling eyes, as if they could see through my soul.

I couldn't resist her gaze, and I couldn't tell whether the throbbing in my heart was due to love. I felt the warmth of her palm, and that warmth seemed to be the most precious warmth in my life.

Some people say that even though there are 3,000 diseases in the world, only lovesickness cannot be cured. Even though there is a desire to leave, adding more time can soothe the sorrow. I can no longer tell whether it is vulgar or elegant. I only know that if I don't go, I will be unromantic.

For me, it means washing my feet once or twice, but for her, it may be a train ticket to go home for the New Year, or a down jacket to keep her warm in the severe winter. She has a gambling father, a sick mother, a young brother, and a sensible girl.