On the night of the 29th of the twelfth lunar month, it was heavier than the soil on a grave. Even the wind was carrying the anxiety of the new year and the biting chill, rushing across the train station square. The searchlight hung dimly in the air, dimmed by the debris of firecrackers scattered all over the sky. Wherever the light swept, there were all the returning people carrying their bags and looking tired. Only the shadows in the corners hid something strange that was incompatible with the atmosphere of reunion. I pulled the zipper of my down jacket to the top and pressed my chin against the collar, trying to block the wind. However, the smell of frozen soil, rust, and a bloodless smell still penetrated through the clothes and made my throat tight. It was not the smell that a Spring Festival travel station should have. It was more like wafting from the cracks of hell. It was bitingly cold and fishy and bitter.
