In the summer of 2005, the sun was still hot, the cicadas were still noisy, and nothing showed any difference. The people in the town were still so lazy, and there was no sign of any change. But I was in a trance for a moment, thinking about the former courtyard to the yellow mud flat land and the abrupt brick buildings now. The white sand sycamores in my memory are just like phantoms that once appeared in my sleep, flickering in and out.