Chen Xu's life is very short but very long. She has cultivated a bitter tree in her heart, and one day it will become as tall as a canopy.
Some trees are given too heavy a name when they are planted.
Her childhood was a crack in the door. The light leaked in from there, narrow and cool, cutting the quarrel into thin slices, and gently covering it with the sentence "it will all pass". The days are stacked up like this day by day, like the old sweaters my mother put away at the bottom of the box, smelling of mothballs, neat and slightly bitter.
She learned to smile when she was in pain, like a grammar. Fold the blood, tears and all the sharp emotions into square tissues and stuff them into the deepest part of your pocket. Gradually, a silent forest grows in the body. Every tree is upright, gentle, and makes a growing gesture toward the sky.
Only she could hear the subtle cracks deep in the wood. Like the distant glacier loosening for the first time in spring, like my mother's waving gesture soaked by the setting sun at dusk that year, it will always hang on the branches of memory, becoming the first leaf that will never wither.
Stillness is a kind of weight. When she finally couldn't bear the intact posture, the roots of the entire forest began to tremble gently. It turns out that the tree did not fall down, but returned the accumulated moonlight, unspoken words, and all the tenderness that was misunderstood as strength, inch by inch, to the original soil that promised peace.
She completed the last growth rings of the bitter tree - using silence, she sealed all the years that failed to grow into sweetness.
Intention: To build a silent monument named "Chen Xu" to inscribe all the unheard cries.