Every window with a light on late at night hides an unfinished love letter.
I often sit in front of the floor-to-ceiling window of the 24-hour convenience store on the corner, recording the heartbeat of the city on the back of the cash register receipt with a marker. Those girls with red eyes and lipstick on the last train, the uncle rider with faded wedding photos in the take-out box, and the silver-haired professor who always lingers at the door of the pet hospital—their sighs, the wrinkled registration slips, and the old pocket watches that are rubbed repeatedly have all become keys to the hidden world in my writing.
This is not a fictional drama but the texture of life itself. When you read these stories, you may suddenly stop at a certain paragraph:
Page 37 in my notebook is stained with coffee stains of varying shades of fingerprints, recording the mysterious persistence of the cafe proprietress to wipe the same seat every day for twenty years.
Page 89 of my notebook contains a real specimen of sycamore leaves, from the old scavenger couple who used fallen leaves to write poems.
Page 162 in my notebook is particularly deeply creased, a testament to my repeated reading of "Two Cancer Patients Sharing an Umbrella on a Rainy Day"
I have collected dozens of such emotional specimens over the past six years. They may not be perfect, but every piece of brokenness shines with the most authentic glimmer of human nature. When you touch these words with body temperature, please handle them with care - because what you are holding may be the most precious slice of life of a stranger.
[Suitable for readers]
A person who thinks of someone in the mist of convenience store oden
Someone who keeps expired movie ticket stubs
People who believe that strangers' tears are more precious than diamonds
Purpose: Salvage eternal emotional amber in the withered era