Limited to 500 words. A semi-old wooden box with red paint, a yellowed diary, and a maple leaf that is still as red as blood are sandwiched on the eleventh page, because someone said that eleven is a lifetime.
This story takes place in an ancient town in the south of the Yangtze River that was originally poetic and picturesque, although most of the green tiles and gray bricks have long been replaced by cement tiles. The deep alleys have gradually disappeared in the long river of history, but there are still a few that have survived and are hidden in an old low house in the south. The shadow of history vaguely remains here. It is said that the Chinese people are very nostalgic for the past. They return to their hometown in rich clothes and return to their roots when the leaves fall. Thousands of years of habits cannot be easily changed. Perhaps old things can always give people the illusion of silence, like an old man meditating under the sunset, squinting his eyes that have gone through many vicissitudes but are still as bright as before, looking into the distance. No one knows whether that is the future.