Aged Vinegar Under the Tree

Years are like an endless letter. Every year he buries a jar of wine under the old locust tree, waiting for someone who will never come back. The green hair turned into snow, the trees were already towering into the sky, and one night the moonlight was still as bright as before. He dug out the first jar, and his youthful features appeared in the aroma of wine. When I woke up from a drunken state, there was a note she left under the altar: Wait for me. He finally understood that waiting itself was the answer.