Yun Gui gets up every morning and cooks porridge.
After the porridge was cooked, she sat at the door and waited for the lantern to go out. When it gets dark, the lanterns go out. When it gets dark, the lanterns light up by themselves. It has been like this for thirty thousand years.
When someone comes, she serves porridge. No one came, so she just sat. The wedge squatted on her shoulder, sometimes chirping, sometimes not chirping.
All kinds of people come.
Some were covered in blood, some were translucent, and some had not drunk anything hot for tens of thousands of years. They sat at the table and drank porridge. They cried while drinking, laughed while crying, and left smiling.
If you leave, you won't come back.
There are also those who come back. People who came 30,000 years ago came again 30,000 years later. He was too old to walk and died in the inn. Yun Gui buried them in the backyard and planted a flower on it.
There are more and more flowers in the backyard.
Sometimes she would stand in front of the flowers and think for a while. Think of those people's names and what they said. Sometimes I can remember, sometimes I can't.
Forget it if you can't remember it.
The porridge still has to be cooked, the lanterns have to be hung, and the door has to be left open.
As long as the door is open, someone will come.
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Healing·Daily·Slow
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