三朵玫瑰，半城风月

英语释🇬🇧

The wooden door shaft of the old bookstore always makes a soft creaking sound when opening and closing, as if repeating an ancient tune. The old man in a blue shirt stacked three yellowed books on the windowsill, and the sunlight shone through the dusty glass, casting mottled brightness on the pages.

These three books, someone always asks about them together. "He wiped the cover with a cloth towel and touched the words" Love in a Fallen City, "" Red Rose and White Rose, "and" Half Life Fate. "The ink had already faded to ashes." Someone said they wrote about three kinds of love, but I think they are the three sides of a mirror

The girl in school uniform tiptoed to reach the topmost book, and as soon as her fingertips touched the spine of "Love in a Fallen City," she stumbled in a gust of wind. The old man reached out to support her and pointed to the bookmark hidden in the pages of the book - it was a withered rose petal, with a crispy edge but still a faint powder.

Look at these petals, "the old man smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes filled with sunshine." They must have been scorching red back then, but later withered and became bookmarks, more durable than when they were fresh

The girl didn't understand, but when she opened "Half Life Fate", she saw graceful words on the title page: "In the winter of 1946, bidding farewell to you, the book is not yet complete." The ink had spread a little, like tears dripping onto the paper. She suddenly remembered the boy from the next class who was always waiting for her in the hallway. The milk tea she received yesterday was caught by her mother before she could drink it, and she spilled half a cup in panic.

When I was young, I always felt that love should be grand and passionate, "the old man returned the books to the bookshelf one by one, his voice as light as a sigh

As dusk fell into the bookstore, the girl walked out of the alley holding a book. The wind lifted the pages of the book, and the withered rose petals gently fell, sticking to her sleeve stained with milk tea. She suddenly remembered the old man's words and looked down at the faint pink mark, as if seeing all the time she had loved, hurt, and missed slowly settling in time, becoming an unspoken part of her life.

Just like those three books that are forever together, no one names them, but in every moment they are opened, they reveal different versions of themselves - the hands that grab each other in troubled times, the shadows that toss between red and white, and the turns that can never go back. And ultimately, all the waves will turn into a gentle sound between the pages of the book, like the wind blowing through an old alley, with a hint of desolation and tenderness, reminding us that love is never the end, it is the path that allows us to slowly learn to reconcile with ourselves in the years.

These three stories, which have never been named the "Love Trilogy", form the prism of love in Zhang Ailing's writing. There is interdependence in chaotic times, struggle in the secular world, and melancholy after mistakes. Each paragraph carries her unique "desolate background", but on top of it, stubborn flowers bloom. As she wrote, 'Love is not passion, nor nostalgia, but time, and the passage of time has become a part of life.' Whether it is a fleeting encounter, the confusion of roses, or a half life relationship, they ultimately turn into a sigh from old times, left in the pages of the book, waiting for every passerby to read out their own shadow.