At this point, there should always be an ending, I am not an author who writes for a living, I just want to tell one story after another that I am willing to tell...... The rocking chair creaked, the rain outside the window beat against the metal canopy and there was a ticking sound, and a trace of sadness hung on my face until tears blurred my eyes, the wind turned into lines, the rain turned into a solid suspended in the air, and the freeze frame of that quarter of an hour became a deep imprint on my heart, and I finally remembered him, whose picture has always been treasured in my photo album, has always existed in the deepest part of my memory.........

"Dad, why are you crying?"

"Baby, I didn't cry, it was rain."

The end chapter of "The Prodigal Father" is being hit by hand, please wait a while,

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