The school's old mailbox is going to be replaced. When cleaning up, I swept out a stack of old letters from the bottom. At the bottom was a notebook with a symbol drawn on the lower right corner of the cover.
Turning to the first page, the handwriting is quite correct:
"She died. Cremated. All that was left was a small handful of powder. It turns out people can become like that."
From now on, there are the normal first-year study records: class schedule, topic selection, and the sweet and sour pork ribs in the cafeteria. Until a line suddenly appeared on a certain page:
"I dreamed about that road again. The curves on rainy days. She lowered her head and rummaged for something in the passenger seat. I couldn't scream. I stretched out my hand, but it was empty."
The handwriting seems to have become messy from here on out, without a date, like random scribblings.
"I was passing by the steps in a hurry to hand in the materials. She was sitting there basking in the sun. Someone was talking about her. She heard it and smiled indifferently. That smile was wrong, I saw it, but I left."
Afterwards, the notes began to become organized, and there were also some records of taking medicines mixed in:
"February 6th. Fluoxetine. One tablet before bed."
"March 4th. Two slices."
Sometimes a line will appear suddenly and unexpectedly:
"Today I found the record of the scholarship - she seemed to have said when she was standing at the door of the Department of Literature and History, 'Why did the Department of Computer Science also get it?' I got it. She didn't know."
Then the following content suddenly and inexplicably shifted to junior high school, as if it jumped randomly into another time and space:
"Corridor. Junior high school. She was wearing her school uniform and squatting on the ground to pick up books. I knelt down to help her. She said, 'Which class are you in?' And I said, 'Passing by.' She was sixteen years old, with a ponytail. There was a strand of hair on the left side that was not tied in and was sticking up."
Further on, the handwriting is trembling:
"She asked the person where he went to junior high school. The person said Shandong. She seemed a little regretful that she had the same name as a former friend of mine and admitted it wrong."
"She was one step away from finding me, but she missed it"
The contents of the notebook are incomplete and have been torn out.
There is only one line on the last page:
"When the wind blows through the loquat trees, it feels like someone is turning a page of letter paper far away."
The logistics people put this nonsensical notebook and other old letters into cardboard boxes and sold them to people who recycle old books. No one could understand who wrote those words to whom.
The used bookstall near the school is still under the third plane tree at the entrance of the alley. There is a hole in the awning, and the sunlight leaks out and falls on an empty chair. There is an old, faded notice taped to the door, with only the last six words remaining -
"Please put your letters in the mailbox."
The mailbox at the entrance of the alley was so rusted that it couldn't be opened.
Intention: You stand in front of me, but we don't recognize each other
