Leave a Light

At two forty in the morning, it was raining in Shanghai. I was sitting in the live broadcast room with a red light in front of me. On the other end of the phone, some people were crying, some were laughing, some wanted to die, and some wanted to live. I'm the host of a late-night radio show called "Leave the Light." From two to four in the morning, I keep vigil for those who have insomnia. When I hung up the phone, I said, "Go to sleep, it's almost dawn." But I myself haven't slept a full night's sleep in three years. Three years ago, a woman slammed the door and left, leaving me with a message: "You wait for me, or you don't wait for me, it doesn't matter." She left an unplucked scarf and a bankbook, and then disappeared from the world. I guarded half of my scarf and said into the microphone at two o'clock every morning, "Go to sleep, it's almost dawn." I cure everyone except myself. Until one day, a woman with insomnia called in - she said she had been listening to my program for three years. She said she also wanted to knit a scarf. She said her name was Bai Tang. I went to find her. She was sitting in a bar called "Blank Space", by the window, wearing a beige sweater and a glass of lemonade. She said, "Shen Mian, you are thinner than I thought." The scarf was knitted from the moment no stitch was moved to the end. She said: "I saw a scarf. The two ends were different, but together they were the same scarf." Later, the woman from three years ago finally made a phone call - not "Don't wait", but "Have you finished knitting?" Later, a girl said to me: "You have finished knitting your scarf, what else will you knit in the future?" I said: "I won't weave anymore. From now on, I will weave every day." She said: "I will knit with you."