Before the neon lights of the city illuminate every inch of the land, there are countless bizarre legends hidden in the countryside. They are not the printed words in the official history, but the cigarette pots and pots under the old locust tree, the whispers beside the well at the entrance of the village, and the sighs beside the firepit on winter nights. These stories are like weeds, growing wildly over time and being softened by the years. They carry the smell of earth and the warmth of people's hearts, waiting for you to listen.
