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The first time I passed through the Guandu Plain, it was a barren, silent land. In September, the fields were endless and green, dotted with a few farmers. By November, the golden, heavy rice stalks had bowed, ready to be harvested. And by January of the following year, the land would return to its barren state.

Even without the concept of calendars, the changing fields remind us of the passage of time.

The three of us, living here, gradually developed an attachment to the Guandu Plain as we observed the land and the seasons, and through our visits, we got to know some of the farmers who live there.

In today's world, technology and convenience have broken the barriers of time and space, making it possible to connect with someone anywhere, anytime. Yet, alongside this convenience, we also value the romance of moments that are limited in specific time, place, and people.

Beyond functional life, standardized time, and space, we intervene physically in a place we care for, happen to meet certain people, share certain experiences, and these things happen only in that time, in that place. Afterwards, that moment becomes memory — gone, and never to exist in the same way again.