What would you do if someone gave you a yellowed stamp with the words "Don't wait for me" on the back?
My name is Cheng Shi, 32 years old, Interpol. Three years ago, in a seemingly ordinary smuggling case, I received a brown paper envelope without a sender. There were only four old tickets with the same line of small words written on the back - the handwriting was beautiful, but it looked like it had been scratched with the tip of a knife in a hurry. That night, I heard the page cracking gently between my fingers, like someone tearing off a calendar page in the dark.
After that, every rainy night, I could always smell the same smell of paper dust. It emerged from the cracks of drawers, from subway vents, and from an invisible stove in dreams, reminding me: some addresses, once written down, can never be sent again. And I have to sign for it in person.
In the story, there is snow falling on the neon lights on the Bund, and gunfire echoing in the bells of the ancient temple; some people embroider farewells into a handkerchief, and some people spend their whole lives waiting for a "hello". As for me, I only remember the first time I stepped into that city, snow flakes fell on my eyelashes, like a letter that never had time to open.
If you are willing to open this book, please remember:
Don't breathe on the stamps at night, and don't dog-ear the last page.
——Some fire marks, only by touching them with your own hands can you know that they were originally meant to illuminate.
