I am a ghost, a ghost with amnesia. Maybe I just drank Meng Po soup but did not walk on the Naihe Bridge. Even so, there are still some fragments that keep popping up in my mind, large tracts of golden yellow and red intertwined together, which is disgusting. I often hide in corners and listen to people talking, and gradually I understand that the disgusting color is what people love. Unbearable. They say ghosts are not good things, but I don't think so. Most of the ghost stories spread by word of mouth are our work. With our ability, it is a piece of cake for a human being to die without any explanation. If we were not good people, would you still be alive?