This is a story with an ending first and a beginning later.
A scene played out in my mind many years ago.
The old man, dressed in white, stood on the top of a high mountain with his hands behind his back. Although his hair has grown, his figure is still upright, and it can be seen that he was once a young man with bright clothes and angry horses.
But why is the banjo next to me a little lonely? Did its owner just play something on it? Or maybe the piano has never been played and never made a pleasant sound.
The old man, slowly swallowed by grief, kept looking at the distant mountains, speechless. After all, he is the only one here! No matter how much you say, who will you tell it to?
The wind picked up, and the wind gently rolled up the leaves, petals and sleeves, making a rustling sound. The strings he was playing vibrated slightly, emitting a few low melody sounds.
Intent: fictional romance