The train passed through the tracks of the intermountain railway. The maroon-striped carriages creaked to the East.

Roads had just been renovated not long ago, and the pungent smell of asphalt still lingered in the air. Staggered rails, rusted railings, mixed with the memory of the times. The yellow light kept flashing on the side of the road where the tile house was located. The white wall next to it had withstood the scouring of rain for many years, and gray covered the top of the wall.

Seats that had accumulated old memories were mottled with decay, and the reflection of sunlight rolled like a film. Sitting in the empty carriage, dazzling sometimes, the shadow would stop at the tip of my nose for a while. The train attendant blared in the background. But I didn’t care about the name of the next stop; I had no so-called destination for this trip. The turquoise bridges set off the blackness of the pavement. The water turned back into a stream, and the riverbed under the bridge was faintly visible, revealing milky-white pebbles.

The breeze swept the stump leaves, and the cicada was tireless, singing what he thought was the most beautiful melody.

The wires were wound from pole to pole, indicating the route of travel. The front of the train reflected the green outside, and the world had changed its prosperous appearance. I was in the carriage window and saw my stranded reflection. The pressure was left behind, the hustle and bustle of the city, and I brought my dreams back to the old days.

The scene outside the window began to blur and distort. Turning to a new chapter in my book, my eyes flickered between the lines willfully.

I put the setting sun behind my head and couldn’t stop fantasizing. Music was played randomly in my earphones, and the train slowly swayed with the rhythm. Modern loneliness carried me to a distant end. This was the promenade between the mountains and forests, retreating into a place forgotten by the world. In the deep and boundless sky, foggy lights illuminated a corner of the blue.