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I dreamed of her again. Again and again. The little girl pulling wild vegetables on the hillside, the bride wearing a borrowed wedding dress walking on the mountain road, the mother holding the baby in front of the stove, the woman walking dozens of miles of mountain road carrying eggs, and the old man with white hair sitting at the door of the old house. I was trapped in her eyes, watching her life unfold before me. When I woke up the last night, I finally knew who she was.

At first, there was only one pen. There is no direction, no end, only the moment the pen tip touches the paper, something inexplicable flows out quietly. The book begins without premeditation. Each chapter is the product of a certain moment - a ray of light by the window in the early morning, a stranger passing by on the subway, a sentence that suddenly comes to mind while tossing and turning late at night. The pen follows the heart, and the heart follows time, and time never waits for anyone. You will find that writing itself is a kind of growth. The first words that fell were like scattered seeds, with no visible shape. But as the days passed page by page, the fragments began to get closer to each other and echoed each other - the characters reunited at a certain corner, the plot took root in unexpected places, and the theme was like a mountain in the fog, gradually becoming clearer in outline. This is not a planned story. This is a story that is brought to life. Time is its only editor.

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