It rains heavily during Qingming Festival. It seems that ever since I remembered this day, there has always been drizzle like a gauze on this day every year, as soft as smoke. As usual, I held the ink umbrella that left him at the bridge of Naihe. I don't know how many years have passed, but I still don't know why the painting on the umbrella has been preserved for so long. The longer it remains, the more afraid it will one day be that it will melt away. I was walking alone. This is the only day I can go out on the street with peace of mind, without anyone commenting on my full head of silver hair and my extremely uncoordinated childish face. Only on this day were there few pedestrians on the road, and few vendors came out to do business. Even these sparse people would not pay attention to me on the street.