If we say that memory is like calligraphy, when you draw it one stroke, the past is like smoke, and the ink is still fresh before it is dry, and it is still real. But after the years have passed, when we return to the deepest part of the memory, it is like the flying white under the dry strokes, scattered and intermittent, and it can no longer be the same as before. We can never guess every detail of that year. Whether it's apricot blossoms, spring rain, or a clear sky, there is no pretense, no ifs, just like what I want to write, leaving a little memory while the pen is still fresh.
This is my story, a true and slightly sad memory. There is no omnipotent protagonist or all-evil supporting character. It is described in a natural state, just like our own existence.