Some things have passed, so we call them past.
What happened in the past will not be forgotten, so we call it memory.
Memories are like quicksand between fingers, years that cannot be grasped,
Only the young man here has looked at him for the rest of his life.
The beacon fire, the wolf smoke, the fierce west wind, the pavilions, pavilions, high walls and temples gradually collapsed into ruins,
Who else will guard the hopeless memories and stare at the past bit by bit.
This is the story of several girls, and it is also the story of several boys.
It is our story, and it is also your story.
I hope that after the ups and downs in the glitz and glamor of this world,
There are still people who will remember those——
Warm, immortal, last year today.