In the cold spring of March, in the devastated border town and the winding and desolate bluestone streets, he held my hand firmly, walking steadily forward step by step, following the rhythm of the sunset and the rhythm of the flowing light. There is no colorful and rich blooming of a hundred flowers, no bright and prosperous grass growing and warblers flying and birds singing and dancing. In the deathly silent empty town, danger was about to break out like a taut string. I followed him quietly, smiling as I watched the curves spread out between my palms, and listened peacefully to the sound of the full pods in my heart, opening in the wind...
If possible, let us keep going like this, keep going...