The lit cigarette went out again, and the dots of fire on the cigarette butt teased the silence of the night. He couldn't remember which cigarette this was, but he still had no intention of speaking and was just silent. Sarah Brightman's "Scarborough Fair" plays on repeat in the car. The moving melody is like toxin, penetrating into every pore along the texture of the skin without warning, easily defeating the defense line I set for him. I don't want to speculate on whether this song is part of his "premeditation" tonight, or whether it is something he has already heard, because tonight's gathering was originally planned by him. Of course he also understands that this song is more like the background of memories for us, tightly entangled with those years of ours, full of sweetness and bitterness...