There are pearls left in the world, sinking on the shore of the turbulent waves
At that time, the sea breeze was salty and there were only a few fishing boats. The eight-year-old child knelt on the broken shells, with red marks from the bamboo fence blooming on his back, and blood seeping into the rough linen cloth, but he just looked down, wiped it off, stood up, and continued to collect his fish basket.
He didn't know what pain was.
Innately so. The pain was like the sound of a bell from another lifetime, reaching him only to be left speechless. He learned how others cried when they were wrestling, but he couldn't imitate her. His mother called him a "debt collector," but he listened, but he didn't know how much sadness and shame were hidden in her words. He only knows hunger, sleepiness, and tiredness—knowing these things because they make him stop. But pain will not. The pain never stopped him.
The villagers call him crazy, call him stone-hearted, and call him "that fool from the old Chen family".
Until that evening, a blue-gray figure stood between the sea and the sky.
The man turned back and glanced at him. Not pity, not disgust, just looking at it, like looking at a tree, a cloud, or a stone that has been washed away by the waves for thousands of years. Then the man asked: What is your name?
Intention: I want to write