Under the sycamore tree, there are young people singing, simple guitars, and vicissitudes of voice, which seem to be telling a long story. The leaves of the sycamore tree turn yellow and turn green. Year after year, I watch the pedestrians coming and going, quietly watching them struggle, grieve, laugh, and redeem themselves. Like, the ferryman of every soul. Stepping on this familiar street again, the sunlight still scattered on Lin Nian's body through the gaps between the leaves. Everything was still as he remembered it, but Lin Nian knew that he was in a dilapidated state and was no longer qualified to enjoy the warm and clean sunshine. Neither he nor they could go back to the past.