"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't know you."

"Don't lean back, or you'll blame me me for being rude."

Instantly, the eyes are murderous, resolute and lonely, which is different from those of the soft, autumn-like eyes of memory.

Her skills are not vulgar.

Hawthorne already knows about the simple encounter just now.

The woman in front of me is calm, calm, decisive and extraordinary, totally different from the Muchu flute in my memory.

Apparently two people, but he believes they are the same person.

After so many years of dreaming, how could he doubt the reality of the dream when it came true?

He just felt...