The door to room 901 is rarely opened.
The person from Room 902 had just moved in, bringing with him a rainbow umbrella, a box of toffee, and An Jing who never asked questions.
Lin Muran lived her life counting the knocks on the door, and saw through the peephole that the corridor was bright and dark. She relies on the three-meal alarm clock to drive her body, and relies on the smell of calming herbs to confirm that she is still alive.
Gu Qingluo listened to her footsteps through the door, folded the note, straightened the silly cat ornaments, and left with gentle steps. He never knocked and stayed, never asked her "how are you today?"
He never said, "What's wrong with you?" He never said, "You need to get better." Just walk slowly with her when she can't walk; still send photos when she doesn't reply to messages.
Two people who couldn't speak, separated by a door, exchanged warmth bit by bit with candy wrappers, bookmarks, half a piece of cake and silence.
It's still raining and it won't clear up anytime soon.
But it was enough for someone to stand with her in the rain and not urge her to run.
Purpose: To write about two-way growth and reconciliation. People with psychological scars can also warm each other in ordinary daily life, let go of the past, and embrace the world tenderly.