In every boy's heart, there once lived a Zhu Yuanzhang.
His empire rested on his horse, which was recorded in history books and eventually became the majestic palace wall of the Forbidden City.
My country is in the tree, in the wind, just an old northern willow with long hair hanging down.
I crowned him with a wicker, and made my bravest comrade a "general" with a stone seal. Our wars are clods and shouts, our court parties are cicadas and popsicles. We once firmly believed that this kingdom established in childhood would be like the roots of a willow tree, rooted in the soil and never fall.
Until the moving day, I ended it with a solemn "death" ceremony.
Many years later, the real history has long been blurred to me, but I remember clearly: that summer, I was the beginning and end of a dynasty.
——This is a story about "loss", and it is also about how we use the most grand ceremony to say goodbye to the self that can never come back.
