When he stood at the door of the morgue for the second time, he remembered the first time. The first time he was six. The doors are gray, the hallways are long, and the air conditioner is on low. Someone was holding his shoulder, but he couldn't remember what that person looked like. This time he was thirty-six years old. The trouser legs are still stained with red oil splashed from eating hot pot last night. Last night, my daughter sent a voice message: "Dad, when are you coming back? Mom made your favorite ribs." He replied: He will be there soon, there is a traffic jam, please wait a while. He didn't arrive. Now he is standing here, waiting for someone to come and go through the formalities. A sentence suddenly came to mind: If a person's sorrow can be ranked, he will never be compared. Maybe even win a prize. He smiled. The person crying next to him thought he was sick. When he was six years old, his mother had an asthma attack. He climbed a ladder to get medicine, but the ladder fell over. Mom is gone. Dad got a call and rushed back overnight, but something happened on the way. Later he survived. He was raised by his aunt, went to college, found a job, and got married. My wife's name is Shen Jing, and she is incredibly gentle. My daughter's name is Ma Jingmo, and she can draw a family of three holding hands, with the sun smiling in the upper left corner. The days are getting better day by day. It was so good that he thought that the nightmare was finally over. Until this night. Here he is again. After completing the formalities, he drove home. There was a peace charm hanging in the car, and two paintings were stuffed inside. One painting took thirty years, the other seven years. The light in the living room was on - no one was there, but he kept it on. He sat down on the sofa and said to the photos on the wall:
"Maybe this is my life." No one replied to him. He just sat there.
