The morning breeze drifts gently through the valley, like a tender pair of hands softly brushing past the eaves and terraced fields of Datan Village. Layer upon layer of ridges are veiled in blossoms, as if time itself has written a quiet poem upon the earth. Every tree and branch appears like lingering snow, or clouds that have fallen into the human world. The pear blossoms bloom for no more than ten fleeting days, yet they unfold without asking when they must fade. Perhaps it is their brevity that makes them all the more precious. When the petals finally fall, everything will return to its ordinary rhythm. The mountain wind remains, the terraces remain—only a pure white dream will quietly slip away.
