As dusk deepened, the mountains loomed like ink strokes on paper. The wooden gate was half-closed, blocking the last remaining rays of the setting sun outside. The heavy creak of the hinge startled the birds nesting under the eaves. Scattered footprints remained on the stone steps, winding toward a mountain path shrouded in swirling mist. A broken willow branch leaned diagonally against the door, its green tip oozing translucent sap, like tears not yet dried on a loved one's face. In the courtyard, two cups of cold tea sat across from each other on a stone table, one already drained, with a few withered bamboo leaves floating atop. Through the gaps in the wooden door, the lingering silhouette of a farewell visitor could be seen standing still, their robes gently swaying in the evening breeze. Wild grass flourished at the corner, and several early-blooming February orchids shimmered with a ghostly blue in the twilight, as if whispering hopes that "spring grass will turn green again next year." On the distant mountain trail, the figure of a friend had blurred into a faint silhouette, gradually merging with the returning geese at the horizon. The mottled spring couplet on the wooden gate bore the remnants of the inscription “No Ignorant Folk Passing,” and a wind chime hanging above the door tinkled in the evening breeze, as if questioning, "Will the prince return?"