I am Jiang Liang, my skin is trapped at the age of twenty-eight, but my soul has been wandering in time for 129,600 years.
The graves have turned into tall buildings, old friends have become vague shadows, and even my own name has been worn into sand by the years. Until I pushed open the door of the ancient book restoration room - the fragrance of ink on Li Yinjun's fingertips was like a ray of light leaking into the desolation, making my rusty heart beat.
He said that I had the "smell of time" on my body, but he didn't know that this smell was the embers of thousands of partings. When his life came to an end like a fragment, I realized: Immortality is never a gift or a curse. It is about holding the square of ink he left behind and writing love and forgetfulness into words that will not fade, stroke by stroke, in the endless loneliness.
Intention: I don't know