The headwind illuminates the dim light, piercing the desolation of the room, the rings of growth, and the carvings deep in the memory. The white skirt was blown up by the night wind, and Ye Yu, who was sitting under the birch tree, finally burst into tears. It's fleeting, and the only thing that can't be like dust is memory. Bitter and astringent, just like the white moonlight outside Gusu City that day. Outside Gusu City, under the Twenty-four Bridge, there will still be white moonlight, and the lake light reflects the mountains - but you are no longer in my eyes.