I have been searching, I have been searching, my years are like the wind. Where have they all gone? Why can't I always find them?
Look, the trees outside the window are green again, dense and rich. Those days will never come back, and I don't want them to come back, that black, war-torn era.
Some people say that novels are just about making up stories. I don't deny that, but stories generally come from life.
However, please believe that stories are not life, life is different from stories, because life is much more complicated than stories.
Maybe it's not well written, or it's unbelievable, but I will still choose to stick to it, because——
Because this is my truest life, my deepest secret.
Well, the last sentence: If you support it, please support it, and if you have any opinions, please share them! :)