It was December of last year. You were a street performer posed outside the train station, I was a passerby. As other people approached and dropped money into your box, you would come to life, draw a rose from your layers of clothing, and hand it to them silently. I must have watched you for hours, but you never ran out of flowers.

I returned to the train station the next day, but you had already moved on. Where can I find you again? And more importantly, can you teach me your make-up secrets? You looked like a real statue.

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