"Is it important… whether it is real or fake…?" Su Ming looked at the sea and sky in the distance as he mumbled softly under his breath.
Is it important…? How could it not be important? Those were his most beautiful memories. That was his Dark Mountain… Those were memories left behind on nostalgia filled books, their yellowed pages lifted by a gentle, quiet breeze…
"No, it’s not important." Su Ming closed his eyes. When he reopened them after a long while, he felt a little tired. That tiredness did not come from his body, but from his soul.
It was like all lamps had been blown out in a buried city. When he extended his hand out, he would not be touching darkness, but would be touching the unfamiliar sights he could not see. He would also be looking at the sun that belonged to someone else, the faces that belonged to someone else, and the dozen something years of his childhood that belonged to someone else…
