It was pouring rain outside. The rainwater washed away the roof tiles along the street and formed small streams on the asphalt road. Such a noisy sound sounded so friendly at this time, just like the sound of rainwater pouring in the bamboo forest in childhood. The memories of childhood were like the muddy spots raised by the rainwater, imprinted on the ankles and skirt corners. With every jump, I am reminded that if I don't remember it again, I am afraid that in another five or ten years, I will never be able to remember it again.
Those songs from distant strangers are always in my dreams, resounding leisurely throughout the hills and echoing throughout my childhood.