April, Qingming Festival.
The train station seemed particularly deserted in the evening, with dim lights, damp and cold conditions.
The woman at the counter who just handed me the train ticket was wearing a neat uniform, covering the hot water cup in her hand with both hands, and was chatting with the person opposite. There was an old gentleman with gray hair sitting on the seat a few steps away. He was flipping through the newspaper in his hand page by page, with a calm look on his face. The young grandson was eating colorful candies and had one hand free to hold the cloth bear's ears.
I stood under the huge electronic screen and saw rows of dense but neat red characters, using English letters and numbers to distinguish the trains bound for various places, fast, slow, southbound, northbound.
The train ticket I held in my right hand had been wrinkled slightly, and it was soaked with my cold sweat.
The moment the ticket check announcement sounded, a cold wind blew into the hall, no, to be precise, it was the cold wind of Qingming Festival.
I pulled up the collar of my windbreaker, turned around and walked towards the ticket gate step by step, with a look of death on my face.
On Qingming Festival when I was 22 years old, I chose to hit and run regardless of the consequences.
Because I didn't know at that time that some things are destined to never be avoided.