She tried to write, but the ink dried. The ginkgo trees outside the window turned yellow, and she suddenly understood: some words do not need to be written, and some people do not need to be reunited. That pen was never a writing instrument, but a container of time - containing the ginkgo biloba in 1941, the beacon smoke in 1943, the river breeze in 1948, and all the "what if" possibilities.
The pen he gave me had fine lines on the cap. I still put it in the innermost layer of my pen bag every day, but I never had the chance to write to him.
