Under the dark and unpredictable night, a forest caressed by ancient secret words quietly wakes up. They weave a cross-border style with the strange melody of "The boxwood pole is so soft, the sister is so beautiful...". This song is not like human fireworks, but more like the whispers of forest elves. It symphonizes with the unknown insects all around, painting a picture that is both harmonious and strange.
The time happened to be fixed at the edge of eleven o'clock that night, the moon was hidden from the stars, and only a pale moonlight penetrated the dense forest desperately, and sprinkled mottledly on an open space forgotten by nature. There, a woman wearing a tawny windbreaker, with a figure as delicate as a willow and black hair like a waterfall, swayed gently in the wind, like a fairy from the valley walking out of a painting. However, her movements were incompatible with the scenery - she was holding the shovel tightly, and every swing was accompanied by the rhythm of flying soil, as if weaving an unknown secret.
