A father who loves to gamble, a sick mother, a brother who goes to school, and a broken her

I don't know her name. The first time I saw her, she was standing in front of me holding a small suitcase. It had just rained in Xiamen in May, bringing a hint of coolness. She stood there obediently, looking at me with a gaze as gentle as water. I had never experienced such a personal tenderness. When I asked her to come over, she shyly took my hand. Perhaps the night was too enchanting; I felt a slight heartbeat.

In that dimly lit small room, we talked from Kafka to Dazai Osamu, from Tagore to Van Gogh. Tenderness flooded over us like a tide. I wished this moment could last forever, and I hoped she could belong to me forever.

She is a beautiful white flower. I touched her beauty with my own hands but could not pick up her flaws. I think she must be free; no external force can bind her existence. I only pity her fate. In her prime youth, she bears heavy burdens: a gambling father above and a younger brother who is less than a year old below. All of this should not be something she has to bear.

I want to take her away, to a place without worries and pain, just the two of us, only happiness. But I underestimated her stubbornness. In the hazy night, she refused my kindness, and that was when I became aware of it.

In the end, she is a flower planted in a pot. Whether it blooms or withers is not decided by the breeze of the hall.

At this moment, I also realized that I am not washing my feet; I am washing away the mud of walking in the world. The only thing I can do is to come and help her from time to time.