The elderly Li Yuanxi walked out of the room tremblingly, and the sound of crying behind her gradually faded away. She returned to her room, sat down, and pulled out a book of poems left by her mother from her desk. I vaguely remembered the swing in the yard. Seventy-five years ago, she sat on it, with her brother pushing her behind.
Intention: Time is like running water. Death is homecoming.
