Who sent it.

No one sued him, and that man, apparently, wouldn't let him know.

He leaned his back against the window, and outside, it was still a field of ice and snow, and snow was flying.

And he just knows that tomorrow, he will not have dumplings to eat.

Bai Mengyao rubbed her numb hands that were about to freeze, she put the things she brought at the door of Tang Yuzhi, and then knocked on the door, and there were as many people as there were to the side, no more, no less, around eight o'clock on time every day, she would come over.

Put down your things and go.

And these foods are enough for him to eat at least two meals, and if he eats for three meals, it is not impossible, as long as he likes to eat.

Tang Yuzhi opened the door, facing the wind, he didn't know what he was silent, that person, sure enough, still didn't want to see him.

He picked up something on the ground, then turned around, and when it was time to leave, he folded it back, took a piece of paper from his pocket, and pasted it on the door.

If you don't want to see it. Well, so be it.

The door squeaked shut, and Bai Mengyao walked out, and the snow had already fallen on her. From afar, it looks like a snowman. She stepped forward and saw what seemed to be written on the piece of paper through the not-so-bright street lamp.

She reached out and took the note and placed it in her pocket.

This is a deep foot and a shallow step, stepping on the snow that has just ended.

It's cold, but her heart has always been warm.

Tang Yuzhi stood in front of the window, in the distance was the figure who walked very slowly, wearing a big cotton coat, a scarf around her neck, and the street lamp pulled her figure very long, yes, although it was winter, although he couldn't see his face clearly, but he knew that he was actually her, a girl, a very thin girl.

He closed the window, and there was a bowl of white rice on the table, as well as four dishes, meat, eggs, and his favorite fried vegetables, all of which tasted sour, and all suited his tastes.

In this way, from the thirtieth day of the Chinese New Year's Eve to the seventh day of the first month, for a full eight days, Bai Mengyao would make things every day and put them at the door of Tang Yuzhe, and Tang Yuzhan did not suffer from hunger, until the eighth hour of the first month, basically all the shopping malls and shops of all sizes were opened.

He had waited a long time that night, but he didn't hear the knock at the door.

It wasn't until just after eight o'clock that he got on his bike and went to a cafeteria that was still open.

It's just that this bowl of rice, for him, is difficult to swallow, it is unpalatable.

Perhaps from this day on, he will begin to get used to the fact that these are not the meals delivered by the man

Bai Mengyao put down the book in her hand, she didn't eat the porridge in the bowl, the eighth year of the first year, the year is about to end, in the future, he no longer needs her, there are some small regrets, and some little loneliness, but they all have to get used to such days, such a life, and this is still a time without intersection.

Opening the drawer, she pulled out notes one by one.

Words were written on each one, and she flipped through them one by one, sometimes in an afternoon, a morning, or an evening, and she looked at the few words on the note, and then it was a long, long time.

"Who are you?"

"Don't you want to say it?"

"If you don't want to say it, then don't say it."