他在画外凝望多年。今夜，他走入千里之间。Years of looking from beyond the scroll.
Tonight, he enters the world it has held for centuries.
历史留下署名，也留下了无名。History remembers signatures.
It also remembers the hands without them.
未有画时，先有绢。
绢之前，是蚕丝，是水火，是彻夜不眠的手，是比光阴更细的一缕丝。Before becoming colour, it was stone.
Someone had to enter the mountains and bring it into the light.
青绿成为颜色之前，曾在山中沉默为石。Before Qinglü became colour, it lay silent in the mountains as stone.
万千毫端，反复拣选。
只为落笔一瞬，成就一笔千年。Countless hairs, patiently selected.
All for one stroke — a moment that would outlast a thousand years.
烟与胶，经手成墨。
墨色愈深，愈藏着沉淀的岁月。Smoke and glue, shaped by hands into ink.
The deeper the ink, the more years it carries.
一笔落下，千山入卷。
岁月流转，终有相逢。A single stroke gathers a world into the scroll.
Time unfolds, and we find each other again.
THE SCROLL CLOSES
历史留下署名，舞台寻找无名。
他们并未取代希孟，只让“作者”二字，抵达那些曾经托举这幅画的手。
History remembers names.The stage remembers hands.
Ximeng remains the author. Yet behind every work that survives, countless hands have carried it through time.