At this point, if we ask whose fault it is, who can answer? We don't know anymore. Those days were like the green trees that stood high in the sky in June that year, far away and never to be touched again. The song is sung, and the memories are separated from each other by the glass. It seems so. It seems that every time I stand in Jiaosi, Jiaosi, which is always dark and does not turn on the lights, looks at the people walking on the bright Wutong Avenue.