Another Midsummer Year, Another Year-Old Sophora Japonica!

Huai Xu's Story of Immortality [No heroine] [Not brainless] [Immortality] [No knife] [Jianghu] For all eternity, Li Huaixu is nothing more than quicksand between his fingers. He wandered around the rivers and lakes alone, like fallen leaves floating in the rivers, without any companions. As he stopped and walked, he saw fireworks in the world rising and extinguishing, and the figures of old friends gathering and disappearing. In the shadow of the sword and the light of the sword, he had seen the young man dressed in bright clothes and angry with the horse, and finally turned into a withered bone in the grave; he had heard the promise of a bosom friend promising a huge amount of gold, and the yin and yang were separated in the blink of an eye. It turns out that there is no long road to the rivers and lakes, and there is no ancient road to the pavilion. Instead, there are only mornings like blue silk and snow at dusk, and success or failure is empty. Long time has smoothed the edges, but it cannot erase the loneliness that penetrates deep into the bones. Those words that have not been said, the wishes that have not been fulfilled, and the people that have not been retained have all become intractable feelings in the heart. I don't know how many years later Li Huaixu finally understood a sentence: places that cannot be reached are called distant places, and places that cannot be returned are called hometown. But after going round and round, he finally landed back at the starting point of the story - under the old locust tree that gave him his name. The tree is no longer as vigorous as it once was, and its branches are mottled with time. When the wind blows, the rustling of the leaves is like the whispers of old people. The sadness of things and people being different surges in. Before I can open my mouth, tears have already flowed. As soon as the spring breeze blows, it seems that an old friend has arrived. It is not until the young man with the shadow of the old friend hidden in his eyebrows stands under the tree that he suddenly realizes: It turns out that time has never really been blank, but the thoughts of the past are hidden in the curves of the eyebrows behind the old friend. Alas, the trees are not what they used to be, and the people are not what they used to be.