About This Novel
This is Yangjila's voice, soft and sad. It feels like the whine of the ancient tomb blown by the wind, the gentle surging waves of Panyi Chaka, or the song of the thrush in the woods in late autumn. From then on, Yangjila never appeared in my nightmares again. But I suffered from severe insomnia. In the dead of night, listening to the rustling of the old poplar trees outside the window and the hoarse calls of wild cats regardless of the season, it felt like I was back in Panyichaka. Listen quietly, it's another old story.
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