The evening breeze blows, and the afterglow falls on my arms.
At that moment, I felt like he loved me very much. But, it seems like he doesn't love me.
He told me that under the setting sun, there is a humble house covered in ashes; life is bitter and boring.
I have imagined that the small town forgotten by the setting sun will bloom again, and I hope that person will quietly look back, secretly watch the ten-mile South Street, and once again be deeply immersed in his hollyhocks.
(The entire text is written in the first person)
Concept: A touch of tragedy