During the rainy season, Jiangnan was soaked in water. When I was picking up bamboo fibers to mend the remaining scrolls of the Republic of China, Lao Zhang sent me a broken wooden box - a rosewood comb covered with brown hair, with the word "A Yun" hidden on the back of the comb, and a piece of paper written "Made by Yun Mei, in the winter of the 16th year of the Republic of China." The moment lightning struck the teeth of the comb, my palms suddenly became hot, the wall clock stopped, and I opened my eyes again: the carved wooden windows were covered with tissue paper, a man in a long gown walked through the rainy alley holding an oil-paper umbrella, and the rickshaw bells rang out with the echoes of 1936. Grandpa said that old objects hide the soul of time, but it was only when I held this comb that I understood that what it brought me into was not the past, but an unfinished story, waiting for me to use the paste on my fingertips to make up for the regrets of the missing ten years...
