Someone Is Waiting for You to Go Home

In the third year after my divorce, I moved into an old southern street and opened a small embroidery workshop. I have no friends and don't interact with anyone. The only "social interaction" I have every day is listening to the piano playing next door at 7:03 pm. He would never play until the second movement and then stop. Later I found out that his name was Song Yuanzhou and he was a restorer of ancient books. He didn't know how to talk about love, but he would finish copying an "Embroidery Book" when I was away from home, learn to knit scarves clumsily, and then stand at the exit of the station in winter and wait for more than an hour. He said: "Loving someone should make them bigger." I thought I would never wear red again in my life. But Grandma Wu's red scarf, the red lantern on the old locust tree, the two extra poached eggs Aunt Jiang gave me - everyone in this alley is telling me in their own way: You don't need to carry it alone. Take your time and you'll get there. There is someone waiting for you to come home.