It was still dark, and a layer of gray fog covered the east gate.
Lin Feng's left hand was holding a bald broom, once and again.
The movement was slow and mechanical.
The rustling sound of sweeping the floor was the only continuous noise in the silence. He regarded the broom as his other hand, although that hand was long gone.
The right sleeve is empty, swaying slightly with the morning breeze, like a white flag of surrender. The broken part of the shoulder feels sore and itchy on rainy days, as if there are countless ants burrowing in the seams of the bones.
He endured it.
I have long been used to this kind of pain after three years.
What I am more accustomed to than the pain is the gazes of passers-by.
There was sympathy in those eyes, but more of it was contempt and ridicule. Like invisible needles piercing his already scabbed self-esteem.
"Hey, isn't this Lin Baihu? He's very clean!"
A man carrying a load selling breakfast passed by and stopped deliberately, his voice full of joking.
Lin Feng did not raise his head and continued to sweep his floor.
He is no longer Lin Baihu.
