On the other side, Yasmin changed into a bathrobe and lay on the bed covered with a silk quilt. She tossed and turned and couldn't fall asleep, so she simply got up.
Franklin stood on the balcony, holding a cigarette between his slender fingers. As the cold wind blew, the quietly burning tobacco was exceptionally red.
Yasmin hugged him from behind, her head resting on his back, "Frank, it's very cold now, why don't you come back inside and rest."
"You go to bed first. I'll come in after I finish smoking this cigarette." He could only rely on cigarettes to numb the heartache and the tense and fragile nerves in his soul.
He wanted to rub all those sad things, those things that were hard to express, those things that could be forgotten but could not be forgotten, into smoke and burn them all, so that he would feel better.
