A man waits at an ancient river landing. In spring he watched her sail away on a light skiff, willow-green along the bank, too little left to say. The ferry returns every season — and every time it brings strangers. Through summer cicadas, autumn geese, winter snow pressing the reeds, he stands at the landing and watches each boat dock. The guzheng opens with flowing river-ripple arpeggios; erhu carries the interior ache; dizi threads the reed-wind between verses; xiao breathes the distance. The chorus crests on the quiet devastation of watching a thousand sails pass — none of them hers.