The rain in late spring stuck to Wangchuan Lane in Luoxia Town. Su Yan walked over on the bluestone slabs. The letter sent on the 17th in his hand brought out a vague childhood memory - the boy holding the cracked jade, the cryptic instructions from his grandfather.
Shen Gu opened the door, his face under the brim of his hat was as cold as ice, and the maple leaf pattern on his neck was looming. The jade on the stone table shimmered, photographed with the old photos brought by Su Yan. The promises made in the twenty-sixth year of the Republic of China, the lives and the truth owed to each other by our ancestors were first revealed in the sound of rain.
The sudden news of the theft of the spiritual mirror in the ancestral hall corresponds to the words in my grandfather's diary: "The mirror locks the soul, and the jade attracts strange patterns." When the rain was about to stop, Su Yan looked at Shen Gu's back and suddenly understood: this reunion is not the end, but the beginning of the fog in Wangchuan Lane.
Intention: I can't write. . .