Sometimes, a dream will pop into my mind. It was like a slow shot, slowly stretching out from a thick fog, gradually showing a world filled with smoke. It was a meandering lake that looked like a river but not a river, long but not wide. The shore of the lake forms a gentle arc, and the rows of trees extend along the shore into the distance. The lake is deep and peaceful. That dream was a gray-blue color spread evenly in the fog. The trees, mountains, boats, and the rising sun in the distance were blurry in my eyes. But I vaguely saw you and waved goodbye to me. ． ． ． ． ． You said softly that we could meet again. ． ． ． ． ．
Conception: