The wind from the South Sea is thick and lingering, like a soft net, densely woven diagonally, carrying Song Xu'an from the gray and humid childhood to the scorching sun of Penang.
There are forests of coconut trees, the sun shines brightly, and playmates play on the beach. But the war erodes the hometown, and the golden childhood recedes like the tide.
She had seen him in his most vivid years. He kicked the colonist's street lamp on the street corner, and he picked rambutan from the top of the ancestral hall and hit her on the shoulder. In her memory, he was always carefree, and sometimes he "taught" her to smile more.
Until that day, when he was leaning against the mottled brick wall, his smile disappeared, as if he had suddenly grown up. The worried young man told her: "Axu, my father said that Shanghai will also fall. I can't go back to my hometown."
The word "hometown" becomes hot along with the vague word "" on the brooch. Her Hangzhou was lost in the mist of medicine in front of her mother's hospital bed, and his Shanghai was shattered in the newsboy's waving call.
A speck of dust from the era has overwhelming power for them. She knew well his helplessness when he was forced to say goodbye to his homeland when he was a child, and she also saw his determination to voluntarily return to the country to join the war.
Several months after my resignation, the situation became increasingly tense, and I received few letters, but each one was sincere. She hesitated in picking up the pen and didn't know what to ask. She just said, "The grass will be green next year," without saying the second half of the sentence.
Half a month passed by, and the reply was no longer long. There was only one sentence on the thin letter paper - "Kunming is like spring all year round, and the grass is green now. I look forward to your arrival."
Purpose: Ordinary people who cannot be ignored