My mother has told me fairy tales since I was a child. The Little Mermaid broke into foam at dawn, the bread girl turned into a sculpture under the swamp, Bluebeard killed his wife and was decapitated by the knight, and the red shoes led the girl's legs to dance deep into the forest. I have been listening to this realistic but unsatisfactory fairy tale since I was a child.
Later, the mother grabbed her throat and her deep eyes were filled with bloodshot eyes because her only son was also swept into the deep sea by the waves. Neighbors said that Poseidon rode his chariot across the waves, and he ordered the dolphins to lure me away. They said it was my mother's sin that my father and I had to pay for.
Fortunately, my father came back from the sea to replace me. My mother was going crazy at that time.
And I never showed up for the next eight years.
They said it was a miracle that I could come back. I had lost all my memories of the eight years that I had spent growing up from a child to a young man, but I somehow possessed knowledge that was not mine.
When my mother knelt at my feet and covered her face with tears, I turned back and looked at the white line connecting the sea and the sky. I vaguely feel that sooner or later I will go back there again, and things in the sea will take my life and tear me to pieces, but I will still go.
One day, one day.
On the evening of my twenty-second birthday, I lay awake all night, tossing and turning. Phil Mo, who was on the other bed, patted my shoulder softly and asked me if I felt uncomfortable or hot and uneasy. I said, "Would you like to go to the beach?"
She said, OK, not far.
So we embarked on the road back to the seaside, as if embarking on a road of no return.