The desk lamp at three o'clock in the morning stretched the shadows very long. I stared at the three words "I love you" that were repeatedly scrawled on the manuscript paper, and suddenly I heard the sound of rain hitting the sycamore leaves outside the window.
Last week I saw a pair of old people at the subway entrance. Grandpa was carrying grandma's cloth bag, and grandma was holding his cuffs. When passing the newsstand, grandma stopped and pointed at a certain newspaper and smiled. Grandpa followed her gaze and reached out to tuck the wind-blown white hair behind his ears. The sunlight passed through their intertwined fingers, casting tiny specks of light on the ground.
The convenience store downstairs always has warm yellow lights on, and the aunt on duty will put the milk that is about to expire at the front. Last night when I was going shopping, I bumped into a pair of high school students. The boy gave the last piece of ham to the girl and gnawed the bread while watching her laugh. The water vapor on the glass door was rubbed by their shoulders, leaving two traces, like unfinished poems.
