I am a person who collects stories. I walk on the road every day and every night, watching the early sunshine in spring, the setting sun in summer, the golden leaves falling one after another in autumn, and the snow-capped mountains opposite in winter. I walked from a long, long time ago to a long, long time later, and my footsteps never stopped. I was wearing a rag and linen shirt, and a cloth bag hung around my waist, which was filled with other people's stories. If you meet such a person on the street, don't panic, call me, and tell me your story. Then when you leave this time and space, there will always be someone who remembers your story.
My name is Wutong, the name given by my master. I can't remember how old I am. Where it comes from, I don't know, and where it's going, I don't know. Now I can only clearly remember the relieved expression on the master's face when he handed me his bag. The others on the other side have gradually become blurry with the passage of time.
I am a storyteller, it's just the stories I tell, do you believe it?