On the way back, I remembered the cigarette that I had put out when Zhuang Minglang came in. Everything about Chen Jiaming came to mind like a passing cloud of smoke.
It is this street that carries too many memories of each other and the lost time. It was almost November, and occasionally passers-by would pass by. A boy on a bicycle was carrying a girl of the right age, cheering, and not forgetting to make a flying gesture. The air is thin and memories are torn apart like this.
His hand touched the wallet in his pocket, and when he opened it, he saw that it was the old photo.
The fonts above have become increasingly blurred with the passage of time, and one can only guess the year, 1999, based on the vague texture.
——I, Mila Zeng.
——I, Chen Jiaming, swear...
The memory ends here, completely losing all clues, just like a CD stuck there due to rough quality, and I can no longer remember what happened next.
In addition to the sound of wind and the smell of barbecue sold by roadside vendors, there seemed to be some familiar sound in the air.
The beige walls on the roadside are covered with advertising slogans, and scattered wildflowers have just begun to bloom.