The setting sun shines on the path beside the wheat fields, and the clouds in the sky are dyed golden by the light. The wind blowing from the sea passes through the path, bypasses the woods that grow here, passes through the island's railway, is slowly brought into the town by the small train, and enters people's lives. The waves lapped feebly against the loose wooden bridge on the shore, carrying gravel back into the sea. The setting sun sets with the tide. Is it clouds or cooking smoke that fills the sky over the island? People living here have never thought about these problems, maybe they just forgot.
Concept: The beauty of youth, the ignorance of growth