A touch of moonlight poured down like mercury on the ancient road, with wild grass half a man's height on both sides, and the breeze blew. Under the moonlight, at the end of the road, there was a majestic mountain. I don't know what its name is. I just know that at the foot of the mountain, there is a mountain of unknown year and month.
The pavilion has no name. We can only know how long it took to build it from the traces of time on it. . . . . A beautiful love. A history of war, love, hate, and passion. . . . .