The night was deep, in the study of the old house.
A table lamp casts its light on the tabletop.
Wang Xuesen took out Miyako's letter from the envelope, pinched a fallen dried flower petal between his fingertips, and smelled it.
Hmm, it smells pretty good.
After reading the letter, he casually tossed the flowers and letter into the ashtray and lit it.
He unscrewed the pen cap and laid out a new sheet of stationery:
"Miss Miyako."
Tomorrow night is your birthday, and you said sleeping with me would be the best thing.