Duckweed Love

The artist finished the painting in front of him, copying the entire ancient city - there were only a few missed encounters on the canvas. How many stories are like this, like the broken green floating on the lake, finally meeting and condensing, once there are ripples, they are separated again in the twists and turns. He looked on expressionlessly, just like the expressions under the umbrella day after day. There was an umbrella behind the painter. He suddenly looked back, drifted away from his cold and mechanical footsteps, and came quietly behind him...