One day, when "Scapaulo Bazaar" sounded in my ears again, a little girl wearing a blue denim skirt suddenly appeared in front of me, dancing on the emerald green and lavender grassland... In her purple eyes, there was pain and strength that was inconsistent with her age.
I quietly got up, turned on the desk lamp, and "Grassland in the Wind" naturally flowed out of my pen, as if I was just a medium to tell the story, and the protagonists of the story were talking in a distant place...
Indeed, this is just an old story about protection and betrayal, love and hatred, but isn't it the only thing circulating in the world that remains unchanged for thousands of years?