He has never liked the winter in Jiangcheng.
For humans, it was a real winter. The strong cold air from Siberia, Mongolia is carried in the wind, slowly eroding the skin and bones. Everything is covered with a layer of indifferent and desperate gray by the thick but untouchable haze. The buildings along the street exude the cold smell of reinforced concrete. The plants have lost their original vivid colors. The whistling of the northwest wind is like the hysteria of all things in the world. It gets dark very early and late, and the sky has no color, just like people's mood.
Occasionally it clears up, as if someone finally lit up a faint light in the eternal night. It is fleeting, but he will still chase this sporadic light with enthusiasm, thousands of times.