It is said in the world that death is like a lamp going out.
But the old people in Jiangcheng knew that when some lamps went out, the lamp oil seeped into the cracks in the ground, and over time, the roots of the entire city were softened. So every foggy night, those human figures that had not dispersed would seep up again along the cracks of the bricks, standing on the street corner, pressed against the window glass, quietly watching the people in Yang Shili who were still breathing.
They don't speak, they don't harm anyone, they just wait.
Waiting for a thought that should have been broken off decades ago to be picked up again.
This story takes place in the last old neighborhood in Jiangcheng that has not yet been demolished - Lu'an Lane.
There is a painting shop at the end of the alley. The black paint on the door panel peels off like fish scales. The person in the shop has the surname Xian, each with the same character. Xian Xun was thirty-five years old, thin and taciturn, but his eyes were extremely bright, like two black pebbles that had been soaked in water for too long. He is the only person in Jiangcheng who is still using ancient methods to restore old paintings, and he is also the only person who can see the "oozing things".
He doesn't think it's a talent, he just thinks it's a disease.
Until one day, a woman opened the door of the painting shop holding a camphor wood box. What was in the box was not a painting, but a handful of scraps of paper soaked in tung oil. Under the scraps of paper, pressed a blackened finger bone.
She said it was hers and she wanted to fix it.
When she said this, her shadow did not fall on the ground.
Xian Xun lowered his head and saw the toe of her shoe hanging half an inch above the threshold, like a sycamore leaf held up by the wind.
He was silent for a long time, and then said, "Come in. It's going to rain outside."
Some lights went out, not because they were gone, but because someone else was holding them.
