The Migrant Worker's Story Series

I cannot forget, just as I cannot remember. The torment of wanting to take hold but being unable to let go has tangled around my heart. For so long... They say a besieged city is one that those inside want to leave, while those outside want to enter. But what about the people on either shore of this sea? These two continents, gazing at each other across the water: once you traveled west, but now, are you willing to cross east and return home? "Everything you can't reach is called a distant place; the place you can't return to is called home..." Humming that tune, the ache in my heart echoed Xin Qiji's words from a thousand years ago: "Now that I've tasted every kind of sorrow, I can only say, what a fine autumn chill." If our story is about those wanderers on the other side of the ocean, then perhaps our opening will be as clichéd as my writing: "Once upon a time, there was a mountain. In the mountain was a valley, and in the valley a migrant worker was telling a story..."