Old people often say that there are three gates at the end of the sea.
Behind the first door, the sand is broken and the clouds are painted. After walking for thousands of years, there is no trace of the truth - at the end of the road, there is a man in gold sitting, holding a thread in his hand. At the end of the thread are the ups and downs of millions of people's breaths.
Someone went there with a broken sword, a burned luggage, and worn-out boot soles. But the mountains are still growing and the rain is still falling. Later, someone saw a man in black sitting on the top of the mountain, holding a thread in his hand. On the other end of the thread were new clouds, new sand, and new people walking the old road.
Later, a man with a knife climbed up the mountain. When the man in black saw him, the thread of his cuffs trembled - when the sword fell, someone heard the man in black say, "So you too..." Before he could finish his words, the fog on the top of the mountain dispersed.
After the fog cleared, the mountains were still there and the road was still there, but no one saw the man in gold or black again. Only passers-by occasionally hear half a sentence floating in the wind at night: "Next, don't choose..."
