Three years after my divorce, I moved into an old street in the south and opened a tiny embroidery shop.
I had no friends and kept to myself. My only “social interaction” each day was listening to the piano next door at 7:03 every evening.
He always stopped after the second movement.
Later, I learned his name was Song Yuanzhou, and that he restored ancient books. He wasn't good with sweet words, but when I had to travel, he would copy out an entire book of embroidery patterns. He clumsily taught himself to knit a scarf, then waited for over an hour at the station exit on a winter's day.
He said, “Loving someone means helping her become more.”
I thought I'd never wear red again. But Grandma Wu's red scarf, the red lanterns in the old locust tree, the two extra fried eggs Auntie Jiang put in my lunchbox: everyone in this alley found their own way to tell me:
You don't have to carry everything alone.
Take your time. You'll get there.
Someone is waiting for you to come home.
The writing is delicate and the emotions slowly rise. .