The light years they had spent together could no longer match the chess moves between their fingertips. With just a flick of a finger, it was life and death in the temple. In the twelfth lunar month of winter, what is left to us is the unfamiliarity across mountains and rivers under the soft words. Cuckoo, cuckoo, spring has passed and the flowers have faded, and autumn has come and gone. In the preface of the Jing Festival, I sigh about the ups and downs, and the flowers are like dream water flowing eastward. The wall is deep and surrounded by bamboos. Jade leaks louder, looking back to the deep palace road.