On the edge of the desert, a pair of sharp-jointed and wrinkled hands trembled to push open the old door. The scene from decades ago was covered with dust and seemed so ironic.
A letter in a parchment envelope, stuffed with thousands of words from that person.
"You spend your life fighting for this world, but I can only spend my life remembering you." He smiled, a smile that never changed, but with the marks of time. In the center of the wrinkles, tears like clear lake water flowed down.
Let me spend the rest of my life writing our story.