The Past Is Out of Tune

Returning to the old place, the sound of pipa playing outside the fence has long been muted. The old friend picked up the dusty old things, and the sound of the strings was astringent, vaguely reminiscent of the tunes of the past. A fallen leaf whirled into the window lattice, and he turned around to look for it, but saw the empty courtyard was silent, with only half a cup of tea that he had not finished drinking that year, cooling in the wind. It turns out that longing is like the rain that night, it has already been soaked through the old dream, and it can no longer play out of tune.