All memories have been locked in the mailbox, hidden in the safest place in the world. No one will easily open the scars of time. I thought that the hazy youthful time had collapsed and been destroyed in the violent storm, leaving only healed wounds, blurred figures and the faint fragrance of time. But after meeting each other many years later, the key once again opened the rusty mailbox, exposing the yellowed envelope and bloody tears to the dark sunlight again. Will we start over again, or will it disappear into ashes?