The Wind Stops at the Wutong Ferry

Some stories have been hidden in the depths of my heart for far too long.

I dare not turn back to them or touch them. I can only quietly bury them in the deepest corners of my memories.

That defiant yet gentle delinquent boy, the youth that began beneath the plane trees, the mountains and seas we never got to journey to, those regrets I could never let go of: I treasured them for more than a decade.

Before, I only dared to think of them in fragments. I never dared to tell the whole story.

At last, I have written this unknown chapter of the past, word by word, into a complete novel.

Some people say novels are written to give a story a happy ending.

But I know some regrets can only ever remain between the lines.

In a parallel world, they escaped death and stayed together year after year.

In the real world, my boy remained forever in the height of summer, at fifteen years old.

The feelings I kept hidden for so many years have finally been put into a book.

From now on, the story has found its home, and I have finally said a proper goodbye to my youth.