The snow falls quietly,
The old alleys are winding,
The bookshelves are mottled and dusty,
And the person I met on a snowy night,
Already gone far.
Book Alley is still there,
The snow is still there,
Only the heartbeat that was carefully hidden was slowly sealed by falling snow one after another.
"Xueluo Old Book Alley."
Like the first glance and the last page in our story.
Warm, painful,
And gentle,
Over the long years, it slowly became a story that I refused to tell.
—The first snow is coming,
The wind blew through the alleys we walked together,
The old trees in the corner, the dilapidated street lamps, and the mottled house numbers,
They are all still there,
only us,
They have already gone far away.
The snow is very light and the wind is gentle,
The alley still remembers our footsteps,
But the person is no longer here,
Only snow accumulates little by little,
Slowly bury those old tendernesses.
No noise, no tearing,
Just a very tender regret.
