This city, called Fontaine, survives on water, and water is its lifeline. In the water city, the streets without street lights are winding, and the moss is entangled on the stone slabs. When you step on them, they creak, as if revealing the voice of history inch by inch. The water in Fontaine is cold and deep, hiding so many silent secrets.

When I stepped into this city, I felt a little confused. The wind blew over the water, bringing moisture and coolness, brushing my cheeks, as if touching some distant memories. There were ripples on the water, reflecting the light of the sky and the shadows of the clouds, and also reflecting the melancholy in my heart that has never dissipated. Life in Fontaine seems calm, but in fact it is surging, and there are stories in every corner.

The task is simple, saying that it is to repair several underwater machines. The water is very cold, like well water in winter, piercing but sober. Reaching into the water, I touched the iron gear, and the rusty places vaguely revealed its former glory. Machines are not cold instruments. They are like the hearts of old people, beating with their former vitality. Repairing them is like repairing the silent history of this city.

Sending documents to the court is an ordinary thing. The court is old, the walls are mottled, and the stone steps in front of the door are worn smooth by wind and rain. Walking through the narrow alley, the sun is mottled, and the shadows are long and short. The document is heavily loaded with responsibility and trust. When holding it in hand, it seems to hold the pulse of this city. The people in the city use the law to maintain order and respect for each other.

Then, it is the task of dispelling the phantom. Those invisible things are like shadows, blocking the sight and confusing the mind. The sword cuts through the silence of the night. In an instant, the phantom dissipates like smoke, and a gap is cut in the darkness. The street lights are on, the night is gentle, the laughter of children in the distance is crisp, and everything returns to tranquility. The moment the phantom dissipates, it is like a stone in the heart falls to the ground, relaxed and heavy.

Finally, it is to help the old man at the dock carry supplies. The old man is old, and his hands are full of wrinkles, as if engraved with the frost of years. His smile is the most simple response to life. Taking over the heavy package, I feel a real weight, which is the day itself, tenacity and tolerance. Between people, there is no need to say much, just relying on this support is enough to warm each other.

After completing these things, Fontaine seems to recognize you as a person. Every alley and every cobblestone road in the city has your shadow. People smile at you, which is a proof of belonging. Reputation becomes an invisible bond, tightly connecting you and the city.

The water of Fontaine flows with ancient secrets and your stories. The water reflects your figure, sometimes clear, sometimes blurred, just like the memory of life, sometimes bright and sometimes dark, real and ethereal. The poem of life is written in these bits and pieces, dreams and reality are intertwined, pain and joy coexist.

Night is coming, the starlight is sprinkled on the water, and the breeze is blowing. You lean against the shore, listen to the sound of water, look at the stars, and seem to hear the city whispering to you: “Welcome home.”
Fontaine is not only water and city, but also a harbor for the soul, a poem composed of those seemingly ordinary but profound days.