The sky was gray, with light rain falling in the air. I was walking on a wet stone road with an umbrella. There were blue-grey courtyard walls on both sides of the road. The traces of time appeared on it. The mottled traces may record one story after another that we don't know. Dark green moss emerged from the gaps in the stone road, which was the only green in this gray world.
Wancheng is not a city.
To be precise, it was once a city, but now it is just a historical building.
In the early Qing Dynasty, the embroidery here was famous all over the world. The merchants who came and went every day made the place prosperous. The sounds of hawking could be heard everywhere in the streets and alleys. Every household made embroidery as their main livelihood. No matter men, women, old or young, everyone had good embroidery skills.
But I don't know when the prosperity began to decline, and the embroidery that was once worth a lot of money became uninterested. Gradually, Wancheng began to fade from people's memory, and its former glory was like a flash in the pan. Except for a few pages of historical records, no one remembers this city and its embroidery.
Conception: