Late spring is fading, while early summer has yet to arrive. The crumbling walls of the Qingbiankou Great Wall lie quietly along the ridges like bones forgotten by time. The wind drifts in from afar, brushing over weathered bricks and sweeping across hills covered in flowering almond blossoms. Their shades of purplish red glow softly—like fire not yet lit, like clouds that have not yet dispersed—blooming gently between desolation and history. I walk slowly along an old path, with gravel and dust beneath my feet, yet before my eyes unfolds a sea of delicate flowers. The echoes of beacon fires and galloping hooves have long since faded, leaving only the whisper of wind and drifting petals, murmuring softly at the threshold between spring and summer.
