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Thirty-three Miles

Short Fiction

三十三里

Flying Van Gogh

2K0

In the crowded station in autumn, he still carried large and small bags of luggage. He said, "Mom, don't give it away." Then he turned his head and turned his back to his mother, who had white silk hair and a rickety back. He boarded the green leather train that carried countless thoughts. But who knew that his mother was wet? His eyes stretched out his dry hands to say something, but he hesitated, but who knew that the man in front of his back was already a man with tears streaming down his face. Later, he sat by the window and looked at his elderly mother and waved, and the two said their final goodbyes.

Short Fiction

2K0

In the crowded station in autumn, he still carried large and small bags of luggage. He said, "Mom, don't give it away." Then he turned his head and turned his back to his mother, who had white silk hair and a rickety back. He boarded the green leather train that carried countless thoughts. But who knew that his mother was wet? His eyes stretched out his dry hands to say something, but he hesitated, but who knew that the man in front of his back was already a man with tears streaming down his face. Later, he sat by the window and looked at his elderly mother and waved, and the two said their final goodbyes.