In the autumn when he was seventeen years old, Sorghum met Qing Zhixuan. He was like the wind growing wantonly on the field ridges, crashing into her silent youth. She was like the dew condensed on the ears of sorghum, cold and fragile. They held hands in the swaying dusk of red sorghum, and expressed their true feelings in the night when the cicadas were fading. They thought that this autumn would last forever, and their love would be immortal. But the sickle of fate suddenly fell, cutting off the unspoken confession. It also cuts off the reunions year after year. From now on, "No matter how red the sorghum is, Zhixuan will not be seen, and the return date will not be seen."
Intention: The encounter in youth is as warm as autumn sorghum, but the parting is as sudden as autumn frost. We remember the lost love in time, and we also reunite with old friends in memories.
