You have been deaf for three years. This morning when you were frying eggs, you suddenly heard the sizzling sound of the frying pan.
The sound is wrapped in the smell of burnt eggs, like a rusty needle piercing your eardrum, making your fingertips tremble with pain. When you turned off the fire in a panic, hot oil splashed on your fingertips and burned red spots. This touch suddenly hit your memory: the day your father had a car accident three years ago, it was also such an early morning. He blocked the splashing hot oil for you. The scars left on the back of your hands were exactly the same as the red spots on your fingertips.
Just as he was about to turn around and call his mother to read the newspaper in the living room, a cold voice suddenly exploded in his mind, making his scalp numb: "Don't let them know you can hear me."
The wind blew in from the balcony, causing the newspaper in my mother's hand to rattle. She raised her head and smiled at you, moving her lips and saying, "Slow down, don't burn it."
In the past, you could only understand the shape of the mouth, but now, you not only heard the nervousness hidden in her voice, but also smelled the smell of the ink in the "Missing Person" column of the newspaper, and heard a small "scratching" sound coming from downstairs: it was Lao Zhou, the man who always helped you repair your hearing aid, scratching your door lock with the tip of the key, every time it scratched your heart.
The cold voice sounded again, with an irrepressible warning trill, overlapping with the lingering warmth of my father's last words before the car accident: "Protect your hearing aids": "Especially him.
