The rain, like broken beads, hit the concrete floor of Yuncheng hard.
I stood at the entrance of the old alley, looking at the familiar and unfamiliar sights in front of me, and my heart seemed to be clenched by an invisible hand. Five years. The sand, gunpowder smoke, and blood soaked in the shirt from the north seemed to still stick to his skin. But the road home in front of me was damp, dark, and filled with an old musty smell.
Xiao Bei, probably no one in Yuncheng remembers this name. They only knew the legend of the man codenamed "Long Shuai" in the north, but they didn't know that the legend was once an ordinary man who could cook a bowl of hot noodle soup for his wife.
