Dark, unusual clouds gathered in the sky, slowly drifting toward the memory-laden hillside. With the typhoon approaching, people made their way to the cemetery atop Jian Mountain, hoping to reclaim the fading fragments of the past before the storm arrived. From deep within the mountains came the occasional sound of dogs barking—whispers, almost, of buried stories: ancestors who were relocated, stray dogs that were driven away, a woman still waiting for her husband’s return, and myself, trying to find a connection to my father in the cracks of memory—and perhaps, to find myself as well.
Yang Cheng-hao
Director
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