Madam, What's Wrong with You?

When the rain fell, she didn't know that it would be the only rain that belonged to her in her life. A small sedan was carried into the side door of Chen's house. There was no suona and no Xi Niang. The courtyard is deep, and a few pieces of the vermilion paint on the pillars have peeled off, revealing the gray wood underneath. Someone handed over a bowl of rock sugar bird's nest porridge, which was sweet. Someone sent me a crimson cheongsam, which was also sweet. Only later did she realize that the sweetness in this house was all bait hanging on the hook. She had studied, knew how to read, and had played with foreign microscopes in the laboratory. But the rules here don't recognize those. The rules here teach her: windows cannot be opened, words cannot be spoken too much, love cannot be recognized, and hatred cannot be revealed. She had been punished, cheated, and vomited in a copper basin late at night. Some people are hiding their knives in their smiles, some are flirting in a sweet way, and some are handing over a pack of preserved fruits on the steps with red ears and saying, "If you don't want to eat it, just throw it away." She didn't throw it away. She lost her child, her dignity, and her illusions about a person here. Then, she picked up the lost self bit by bit. Make your own fire, push open that window that can never be opened. The wind blows in, cool, carrying the smell of dead leaves in the yard, and the faint sound of living water in the distance. Time is a slow temper. Some people will leave, some things will fall apart, and some sweet things will take a long time to swallow. But if the window is open, light will come in. She was pushed into the abyss, but a flower bloomed from the abyss.