On Wutong Road

The falling leaves on the Wutong Road in late autumn are the red thread tied to the boy's wrist. Qi Mo lives in a faded map - the water stains on the ceiling are the spread of the old city, the intermittent Yu Ji singing on the radio is the mournful sound in the background, and the old red thread on the wrist is an unknown inscription burned into the skin. The years have deposited on him a kind of silence that is inconsistent with his age, as if youth is just a layer of pale glaze, and underneath are all the cracks of memory. Until the mulberry grass appeared, like an overly vivid stroke, she suddenly cut into his gray depth of field. Her liveliness, her questioning, and her involuntary approach all became sudden noises in his silent world. As a result, two temperatures met in his palm: one was the stagnant past, and the other was the vivid present, and that red line was always faintly warm in his wrist.