Echoes of the Mysterious Wheel

The sound of typing on the keyboard gradually stopped, and the moonlight outside the window just climbed onto the third window lattice. Every time I write a new chapter, it's like running a marathon, both exhausting and satisfying. I especially want to talk to you about the foreshadowing in this chapter - the man with the blue umbrella who always appears on rainy days. The rust on his sleeves is not actually rain. As I write this, the reflection in the coffee cup suddenly makes me shiver. Sometimes characters come to life on their own, carrying secrets that even the author didn't expect. Recently, I keep receiving questions from readers, "What happened to such-and-such character?" This makes me very happy and also very scared. It's like planting a garden of flowers and suddenly discovering that someone is worrying about whether each flower will bloom. PS: Tomorrow I will go hunting for inspiration. If I encounter something interesting, let it become the flesh and blood of the next chapter. Good night, may your dreams have good stories.

It's late at night, and the street lights outside the window are like the eyes of a night watchman. Thank you readers for accompanying the story to this point. Your eyes are the light that shines into the gaps in the text. I've been thinking a lot lately: Why do we write? Perhaps it is to store the unspeakable truth in the fictional world. The next chapter will usher in a critical turning point, and the protagonist will face the torture of his soul - when the ideal is eaten away by reality and only the skeleton is left, should he continue to burn, or learn to coexist with the ashes? PS: Some people always say that my villains are too charming, which scares me. Could it be that I was unknowingly feeding my dark side to the character on paper? (Laughing) Good night, may your dreams be gentler than my stories.

When night falls over the windowsill, the characters in the story come alive. Today I wrote about the protagonist who found the gold-gilded diary in a second-hand bookstore, and his fingers trembled involuntarily. It turns out that the most wonderful thing about writing is that he can also be frightened by the fictional plot. I especially want to tell you that the blue wooden door at the end of the alley will be opened in the next chapter. But don't ask me what's behind the door, even the author himself hasn't decided yet (perhaps that door is also waiting for your imagination to water it). Recently, I always catch the tail of inspiration at three o'clock in the morning. They are like fireflies and will disappear at dawn. For those of you who have read this, would you like to leave a comment in the comment area about what shape the moon looks like today? I will choose the most special ones to write in the extra chapters. At this moment, half a crescent moon is soaking in my teacup.