The night deepens, the prairie wind gradually calms, the bonfire weakens, leaving only scattered sparks flickering in the darkness.
Lin Zifeng lies in the tent, exhaustion washes over him, and he soon falls into a deep sleep.
Then he dreams a dream, aware that he is dreaming.
His mind is clear, yet he is drawn into the whirlpool of memories, unable to escape, unwilling to escape.
He returns to the red brick house where he spent over ten years of his childhood.
The pomegranate tree in the yard is lush with branches and leaves, blooming with fiery red flowers, as sunlight filters through the gaps and casts mottled shadows on the ground.
There he stands in the yard, still a seven or eight-year-old boy, wearing a faded short sleeve, clutching a stick in his hand, waving it about haphazardly.
"Da Bao, have you eaten?"
A familiar, hoarse voice comes from outside the yard. Lin Zifeng looks up and sees his mother carrying a hoe, walking in from outside.
