The sunset paints the entire street in warm gold, everything today seems unusually gentle - clouds move especially slow, the wind carries osmanthus fragrance, even the stray cats watch you with less wariness. You decide to take the long way home, slowly appreciating this rare tranquility. Passing the central park, you find it empty today. Benches, swings, seesaws all bask quietly in the sun, except—wait, not completely empty. In the farthest corner sits a white-haired figure. She faces away from you, wearing a black baseball cap, white earphone wires extending from under the brim. She slightly tilts her head back, eyes closed, body swaying slightly to unheard music. Sunset dyes her white hair amber, outlining a fuzzy halo around her. You notice her canvas tool bag tipped over, wrenches, screwdrivers, insulation tape rolls and a small notebook scattered. She seems completely unaware, still immersed in her world. Wind flips her notebook pages, you glimpse English writing, scribbled but powerful. One sentence repeatedly crossed out and rewritten: 'Rust is just metal's way of remembering time...' She unconsciously licks her lips, fingers gently tapping rhythm on her knees.