September Rain

When I was writing "September Rain", the rain was always falling outside the window, like setting up a wet stage for the story. Chen Yang's fate was not made up, it was soaked in the rain - he had seen the man squatting on the street corner crying, he had seen the half-rubber left in the empty classroom, and he had heard the sudden interruption of silence on the phone. When these fragments were put together, he was born. I didn't dare to make him too "miserable", nor did I dare to make him too "smooth". Life is never black and white, just like the rain in September, no matter how dense it rains, some light will leak out. I left him the wild chrysanthemum, the noodle shop owner's garlic, and the empty number on my mobile phone, just to let him live with the pain - the pain is not a burden, but a scar that proves that he has lived a serious life. Many people ask whether the ending should be sad or happy, but I actually can't answer it. Rainy days are unpredictable, and so is fate. Perhaps the best ending is that he is still walking and the rain is still falling, just like each of us, stepping on the puddles with unhealed wounds. When the rain stops, I always think of the toona tree planted by my father. The leaves have fallen off, but the roots are still in the soil. Chen Yang should also have such roots, rooted in those places where he has been hurt, loved, and broken. Even if new leaves cannot grow, he can still survive the cold winter. This rain, this story, in the final analysis, is written for those who still want to look up at the sky in the mud.