In the dream, there is endless rain from the south of the Yangtze River, and the pattering of rain has wiped out the prosperity of Yin Town for several generations.
There was once a man who held an umbrella to cover the sky above his head and smiled gently, "If you get wet, you may get typhoid fever."
He looked up, a pair of bright black and white eyes filled with the tenderness of the umbrella holder.
Bit by bit, it flows into my heart and fills up the empty scars that last a lifetime.
His expression was like that of a wounded animal, curled up in the alleyway where the howling wind and rain passed through, his lips pursed tightly. Not a word was spoken.
The umbrella holder leaned down gently and asked him, "Can we go home together?"