My name is Qin Wen, a police officer from Jian'an Road Police Station.
On our 1.8-Kilometer old Guangrong Road, Uncle Wang's fried dumplings under the old elm tree in the northwest corner have been fragrant for forty years. The sound of sharpening knives in Dr. Wildebeest's clinic in the southwest can calm the evil spirits in the mute valley. The bright dust of the Buddhist chanting hall at the intersection of the Yellow River has been swept away. For thirty years - the old neighbors called us "mausoleum guardians", and now we call ourselves "guardians" - we have been guarding the heat of Uncle Wang's frying pan, the wind of the Shaying River Embankment, and the 1.8-Kilometer-long fireworks of Jian'an Road. But in fact, what we are guarding is not the grave, but Uncle Wang's hot pot of steamed buns, the wind blowing from the Shaying River Embankment, and the "spirit of living" that no one in this street can tell.
It wasn't until one day that a black bubble called "Human Sacrifice" was dug up in the old warehouse that I understood: The hole that my mother and others filled the dumb hole forty years ago is now about to be overturned...
The author of this article lives near Jian'an Road, and the morning exercise route is the moving route in the book. He goes to Railway Park every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and goes to Shaying River Embankment on Tuesday and Thursday.
