At the end of the corridor, there is dim light. In the early morning, fog spread from the window. It was an ink painting, with a touch of loneliness in this silent corner.
His hand was still on the door, looking at the painting at the end. Gradually, the original appearance cannot be seen clearly. He glanced sideways, sadness falling in his eyes. Turning around, the monotonous sound of footsteps penetrated the attic.
Conception: