Under the old locust tree at the entrance of the alley, grandma's steamer is always filled with warm white mist.
After eating a red bean paste bun, I fell into the dusty old time of others.
It's the note on the desk that hasn't been handed over yet, it's the feeling that I couldn't say when I graduated;
It's a knot that can never be solved after a misunderstanding between a close friend when you were young, and a regret that you regret when you grow up.
I am just a bystander who briefly breaks into the years, witnessing the quiet and tender misses.
The story ends and the illusion dissipates, leaving only the faint sweet fragrance of bean paste on the tip of the tongue.
A collection of healing short stories, light fantasy, no nonsense, each story is an independent human story.
Intention: In the fragmentary old time, accept all the silent regrets in life.