At six o'clock in the evening, the last ray of sunset struggled to squeeze through the mottled wooden plaque of "Zhenhua Martial Arts Gym", casting a narrow and dim light and shadow on the cement floor at the door. Most of the gold characters on the plaque have peeled off, and the word "shu" is even missing a corner. From a distance, it looks more like "Zhenhua Martial Arts Hall".
Zhou Mo squatted inside the threshold, holding a dusty rag in his hand, wiping the jujube wood floor that was older than him over and over again. In fact, it was already very clean, so clean that it reflected the depression on his eighteen-year-old face that was inconsistent with his age. But he couldn't stop, as if this repeated movement could temporarily block a big leaking hole in his heart.
The martial arts hall was empty. The hall that could originally accommodate twenty people practicing at the same time, now only has a few pairs of broken boxing gloves piled in the corner, a few worn white hand straps, and a sandbag that has been used for who knows how many years, with its inner liner exposed, hanging alone under the beam, swaying slightly with the draft.
There is a mixture of dust, old wood and old sweat in the air. This is the smell Zhou Mo has smelled since he was a child. It is the smell of his grandfather and the smell of "home". But soon, this smell will disappear.
