[A letter from a stranger] (mc, light color)

In the early summer of 2004, a girl sitting by the window on bus number 26:

Hello.

Please forgive me for still not knowing your name, please forgive my impetuousness, forgive the inappropriateness of this letter.

Yet I still couldn't help but write this letter; it's the undying desire that has always surged within me, originating from

our chance encounter on the bus ten years ago.

After that encounter, I picked up my pen several times, wanting to write something, but in the end, I crossed them all

out, leaving only the first line:

"I have always stubbornly loved you."

Thinking about it now, it seems absurd. We had only met once, why would I use a phrase like "stubbornly"

? But it wasn't until ten years later that I understood that this sentence was irreplaceable; it was my name.

That was ten years ago, when I came to this southern city to take over my grandfather's greenhouse. I didn't like the sweltering

climate here, the bland food—people always breathed out a fishy smell after meals.

The local dialect here is rapid, sharp, and difficult to understand. Whenever people talk to me in their dialect behind my back, I always

feel inexplicably humiliated.

The doctor said I have mild antisocial personality disorder, and perhaps he's right. I tend to overreact, sometimes

even talking to myself strangely—so I've withdrawn myself from this city, always alone, blaming this awkward situation on the locals' xenophobia.

Living in this city that seems to want to strangle me, all I can do is curse.

People always say love is fragile, but to my surprise, hatred is just as fragile. When the

world casts a tiny bit of kindness at me, who has long since become numb, I feel immense satisfaction.

Thank you, beautiful girl sitting by the window on bus number 26. In the summer of 2004, you represented

this southern city, you represented the whole world, showing me, a stranger you'd never met,

a kindness I'll never forget.

Perhaps you've already forgotten. It was May 20th, 2004, ten years ago today. The weather

suddenly became very muggy. I was carrying a snakeskin bag on the bus in Ma'anshan, filled with fertilizer and some gardening

tools.

The bus was crowded, and I was pushed by the crowd to your side. Because I've worked with flowers for years, I

immediately remembered your scent.

It was a delicate fragrance that wouldn't fade with time. Today, also on the No. 26 bus,

I recognized you again by that scent. Then I moved against the flow of people,

trying see you one last time.

Ten years have completely matured your body; the baby fat on your cheeks has disappeared,

only your eyes and brows remain the same—like your innate fragrance, they have preserved your

pure soul.

But now you're nestled in a man's arms, and this makes my blood rush to my head, my mind grows hazy, and

my body sways, as if something terrifying has been released from my chest—but I can't care about

that now. I only hope that before I faint, I can see the same

kindness in your eyes as I did ten years ago.

Ten years ago, on May 20th, I was just like today, swaying precariously on that crowded, noisy bus,

as if something terrible was about to happen, but I didn't care.

That day was incredibly hot; the enclosed bus was like a natural breeding ground, allowing the fertilizer to ferment and

emit a foul stench. I heard people talking behind me in dialect; I could roughly guess

what they were saying, but I was powerless to respond. I could only try to stuff the burlap sack into the corner and bury my head even lower.

Finally, a woman standing behind me couldn't help but pinch her nose and urge me to get off the bus quickly. She first

said it in her dialect, and seeing my blank expression, she gave me a knowing look, then

repeated herself with even more disdain—this time in Mandarin, but the fishy smell emanating from her breath felt even more foreign.

I tried to explain, but the people around me started jeering, speaking in their dialect—I knew they were saying very vulgar

and malicious things; saying these things in front of outsiders was always their favorite trick.

My only resistance was drowned out by the loud noise. I felt myself becoming

naked , the contemptuous looks and vicious voices gradually curing my flesh to a waxy yellow, then turning it

a dark red like pig's blood.

At that moment, all that remained in my heart was endless humiliation and shame, which overwhelmed all my reason, unleashing a

terrifying beast. I gripped the shovel in the snakeskin bag and silently pushed my way

towards the people laughing the loudest; people quickly made way for me—they thought I was getting off the bus.

Just before I pulled the shovel from the bag, you called out to me. Yes, you were still in your school uniform,

looking only thirteen or fourteen years old. You rolled down the window all the way and asked me to sit in your seat. I don't know

how much courage and kindness it took to do that; I only felt that everything before me was like a dream: in the dream, you

stood up resolutely, blushing as you explained to everyone on the bus. You were so kind, considerate of my pride,

speaking in dialect. I couldn't understand the meaning, but I was amazed that the local dialect could be so

melodious .

When I came to my senses and realized that it wasn't a dream, you had already reached the door and were about to get off. You

turned back and smiled at me one last time, a smile I will never forget—whenever I'm lost in memories,

the first image that pops into my mind is your smile, which makes all my subsequent thoughts filled with gratitude.

Then you got off the bus, and I sat in your seat, where your scent still lingered. Watching your

figure gradually shrink, I suddenly burst into tears. Believe me, this isn't because of humiliation, or lingering fear

of the foolish thing I was about to do; it's a tremor from my very soul—I wept bitterly, yet

was filled with remorse: I still don't know your name. And perhaps, we will never meet again.

The only thing I know is that I will always love you stubbornly.

I will love you without hope, humble as grass, yet stubbornly and unyieldingly.

Please forgive me, please forgive this story that has played out hundreds of times in my dreams, yet I describe it so

fragmentedly , so obscurely. Because I have no time left now; I just want you to know that such a story once existed.

A stranger loved you. This love might have been humble and desperate, but it wasn't a fleeting impulse; it was pure,

real, stubborn, and passionate. It sustained him for the next ten years, making him accept all

the hardships and misfortunes with a bittersweet acceptance, grateful for the endless anguish and despair, and keeping

the beast within him constantly at bay.

But today, that love died when he saw you nestled in that man's arms, when he smelled

the acrid odor of semen emanating from your mouth and body.

I had imagined our next encounter might be like this, and I thought I would bless

you both, that my love was selfless and unconditional. But when that moment truly arrived, it still

died —the love I had cherished so dearly was so fragile and ephemeral.

And so the beast emerged. At this moment, I could clearly feel an extra part of my consciousness appearing in

the embers of that dead love. It looks uglier, more sorrowful, and more desperate than it did ten years ago. It's targeting you,

targeting the girl I've stubbornly loved, plotting a desecration… I'm powerless to stop it, but please believe me, that 's not the real me ! Please ,

while I still retain some sanity, listen to me, don't read any further! The perfume

emanating from this letter has hallucinogenic effects and will impair one's

judgment … Please , please don't read any further … I don't know which version of myself is writing 　　this letter. But by the time you've read this far, who I am becomes irrelevant—the perfume you've inhaled has exceeded safe levels. If I'm not mistaken, you're now completely unable to look away from this letter. Heh, just like me right now: my heart is as still as death, all thoughts deeply suppressed by despair. 　　Oh, I remember now, I am that despair, the beast he speaks of, another man you've never known. 　　Perhaps I should hate you. Ten years ago, when I first gained control of this body, you stopped me. How ridiculous, you were just a middle school student back then. 　　But now I want to inherit his will and call you my love on his behalf. 　　My love, I am so grateful for this absurd day, May 20th; grateful for this tragic encounter today; grateful that you were lucky enough to find your true love; grateful for all these coincidences; grateful that they allowed me to completely control this body. 　　Yes, the man you met less than five minutes ago has died completely with his illusory love, but in exchange, I cannot delete his last words above. He sacrificed his life to preserve your right to choose ; what a great and moving love! But if you can see this far, it only means that his sacrifice was worthless. 　　Alright, let's not worry about that dead man anymore. Let me tell you the whole story clearly. Of course, right now you'll probably just read this letter in a daze. But thinking of your adorable, helpless look on the other end of the letter , my penis is already painfully hard. Hello , you meddlesome little bitch from ten years ago 　　. 　　The original owner of this body was a florist, or rather, a perfumer—an ancient profession. 　　Ten years ago, he came to this city to take over his elderly grandfather's family's flower shop. Don't underestimate this flower shop, for it guards the greatest drug in human history—the Ghost Face Purple River Flower. 　　Legend has it that this flower can arouse all human desires; even a tiny dose can cause a massive release of dopamine. Okay, you wouldn't understand, but it will make you feel extremely high, completely losing the ability to think. 　　Of course, those with strong wills can resist it to some extent, but the price is the loss of function of the dopamine-secreting glands—haha, to put it bluntly, severe depression, accompanied by a strong antisocial personality. If you still retain even a little bit of thinking ability, you should have already guessed that the antisocial personality is me. 　　Honestly, I admire him. Ten years ago, he accidentally inhaled the fragrance of the purple flower, and then forcibly sealed me away for ten years with his stubborn love for you. During those ten years, he felt absolutely no joy. 　　What does it feel like to not feel joy? I can't quite explain it. Right now, I'm greedily inhaling the fragrance of the purple flowers, every little stimulation making me laugh uncontrollably. But recalling the ten years I've inhabited his body, I feel a profound, piercing sorrow. 　　So, if you can still shed tears, please shed a few for him, because today, you killed the man who loved you most in this world with your own hands , even though you'd never met him. 　　Yes, today, with that foolish smile, you breathed out the scent of a whore. This scene completely shattered him, shattered the man who had fought against the greatest temptation in the world for ten years, finally making him unable to suppress me. However, in his last moments of consciousness, this poor man still decided to blow up the greenhouse and commit suicide. 　　Fortunately, I understood his greatest weakness and made an interesting deal with him. 　　This is the origin of this letter: I will give him a little more time before I completely possess him, allowing him to write you a letter—in exchange, he cannot commit suicide, and I will take his place and continue living in this body. 　　So, I'm only able to write this letter alive thanks to you, hahaha! You stopped me ten years ago, but now you're doing everything you can to help me. The struggle of people in the face of fate is truly fascinating. 　　Of course, there are many other interesting things worth mentioning. For example, just now, that poor man kept crying while writing the letter, but I controlled his mouth and laughed uncontrollably. Can you imagine what a sweet moment that was? Ten years of repression finally paid off; the feeling was so wonderful it made me tremble. 　　Even more amusing is that although this poor wretch blew up the greenhouse, he forgot that there was a bottle of Ghost Face Flower perfume locked in the secret room in the backyard. And as I controlled this body to take out that perfume and spray it wildly , watching him struggle madly in his inner world, hahaha, I actually couldn't help but have an orgasm!

It must be because I inhaled too much of that ghost-face flower fragrance; I'm totally high right now.

Okay, let's get back to the point. The purpose of this letter isn't to tell you that the

respectable, pitiful man just died, and what kept him alive was this utter nonsense:

"I've always stubbornly loved you."

However, I've decided to fulfill a small wish for him:

【You will always stubbornly love me.】

Using this sentence to bury him is undoubtedly the best way to show my respect for him, isn't it? Hahaha, I'm

truly a genius!

Of course, you little bitch, this is just the beginning. After your soul has fully absorbed it, please

remember the following:

【I am your beloved husband, your great and revered master. And you are merely your master's lowly and obscene slave. You

will offer your filthy, obscene body, your lowly and pitiful loyalty, and give everything to your master. From

now on, you will only live by the commands your master gives you.】 "

Given your current state of confusion, it must have taken you quite a while to absorb that passage. But we have plenty of

time . Since I've already waited ten years, why would I care about waiting a little longer?

The more time I spend, the more interesting things become! Hahaha, let me think about how to use that poor

man 's body to enjoy his goddess.

Should I dress you in leather underwear, hang an iron plow on you, and make you a draft animal in the greenhouse?

Or should I plant you in the greenhouse's secret chamber, making you a potted plant that feeds only on my semen?

No, no, no, that would ruin your little arms and legs too soon. Let me

think of a gentler approach before you come to pay your respects to your great master…

It seems the greenhouse's front yard is lacking a guard dog…

Anyway, after you've fully absorbed this letter, take care of everything and report to your master's greenhouse.

In this beautiful greenhouse run by a stranger, your lewd and obscene body will be the first flower."

But don't be too touched, after all, I've always stubbornly loved you...

hahaha...

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[A letter from a stranger] (mc, light color)

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