There is a heart without a phase, and there is a heart without a heart, and there is no heart, and the heart is extinguished.

- Buddhism

I dreamed that I was dreaming.

In the double dream, I didn't know who I was, and I couldn't see what I was going through. Only a few mutilated and brutal fragments flashed back and forth: bloody badges, flying bullets, strange corpses and ghosts, and occasionally a pair of breathtaking old eyes.

Bell bell bell ......

I was finally woken up by a rush of alarms. I sat up in a convulsion, sweat dripping down my eyelashes and dripping onto my left arm. I shuddered, and the chill of my heart pulled me back into the world.

I glanced at the clock on the wall, said "it," and jumped up like a fish.

I used to be one of the best political and legal reporters in Huajiang City. Later, because I was often late for work, and for some other unspeakable reasons, I was removed from my original unit. Now, I'm a contracted writer for a third-rate website, and I make a living by collecting anecdotes and writing hunting articles.

When I arrived at the unit again in a slightly embarrassed way because I was late, I happened to bump into the director of the website.

The director gritted his teeth angrily: "You, you kid come to my office." ”

In the director's office, I used what I do best in many years of work - playing a scoundrel: "You know, you know that it takes inspiration to create this thing, ...... Director"

"Don't talk nonsense with me here!" The director glared, "You have been uninspired for three days, I will raise you for three days, you have been uninspired for three years, and I will raise you for three years?" ”

"Isn't it only three months?" I say.

"Are you embarrassed to say it's only been three months? My big reporter, Huajiang Mingji! ”

I felt the irony. I said, "Director, just talk about things, can we stop being sarcastic?" ”

When the director heard me say this, he was also excited: "Am I not talking about things?" Isn't it true that you can't hand in a manuscript in three months? ”

"It's true, but it's ......"

"But what is it? I'll give you one last chance, if you can't submit a decent topic within three days, and if you can't submit a qualified manuscript within a month, you will fuck me off! ”

I was wandering the streets in a milky white jeep, and all I could think about was the domineering face of the website director. I remembered that when I returned to my desk, my usual funny colleagues scattered far away, and a few of them were still hiding in the corners and snickering.

I was reminded of a registered letter that appeared on my desk for no apparent reason. Right now, I'm holding it for inspiration. It's not so much inspiration as the perception and desire for news clues. Years of experience and intuition have taught me that it was not a simple anonymous letter, because there was no text in the envelope, only a sketch of a Gothic building drawn on A4 paper, which I always felt like I had seen somewhere.

Streets, maps, dreams, eyes, and ...... began to flash in my mind. The web of my thoughts grew wider and wider, and I was finally awakened by a sudden black shadow in front of me. I slammed on the brakes to bring the car to a standstill, only to realize that I had almost hit an old man with gray hair and slow movements.

Old man!

I slapped the steering wheel, suddenly brightened, and turned and drove in the direction of Huajiang City Nursing Home.

That afternoon, I walked alone into a courtyard overgrown with plane trees.

The courtyard was surrounded by mountains on three sides, and in the middle was a Gothic house. When I entered, several elderly people in wheelchairs were bathing in the afterglow of the setting sun on the grass, and nurses in tuxedos gathered under the trees to gossip.

I showed up as a journalist and pretended to want to do a report about Sunset Red. The hospital was very happy to hear it. I started by interviewing a few random elderly people who were singing on the grass. Then I asked, are there any painters here?

A nurse told me, "There are no painters, but there is a retired old policeman who likes to paint." ”

I was a little excited: "What's his name, what room does he live in?" ”

"Aged, Room 203."

As soon as the nurse's words fell, I rushed to the nursing home building, and before I could get closer, I heard a loud number from room 203: one, two, three, four, five......

I pushed my glasses stuck on the bridge of my nose and leaned my face towards the small glass window above the door.

The numbers grew louder and louder, and when I stood still, I saw an old man with gray hair in the room practicing his passwords in front of the mirror. The old man's strength was great, and his voice was loud, but he could still feel the aging and exhaustion in his throat.

The old man finished counting, solemnly saluted the mirror, and then his right hand was like a magnet and remained motionless, and the whole person was like a sunken sculpture.

I was about to knock on the door, when I suddenly heard him say in a loud voice to the mirror: "Chen Nian, head of the serious crime team of the Criminal Investigation Brigade of the Huajiang Public Security Bureau, come to report, please instruct!" ”

After hearing the old man's report, the mirror was indifferent to the pestle there.

At some point, I subconsciously pushed the door open. When the old man saw someone visiting, he first turned around and wiped the tears from the corners of his eyes, and then showed a calm smile on his face. I hurriedly stepped forward and explained my intentions.

The old man nodded and said, "Some things have passed and will soon be forgotten, and no one cares what the truth is; Some people get old and are quickly forgotten, and no one cares what he says. ”

"So you only draw and don't write?"

"Everything in the world can be painted, and the portrait is the heart. The root of the appearance of the heart, judging the heart and seeing good and evil; The surface of the practitioner's heart, observing the action and the blessing and misfortune can be known. ”

The old man motioned for me to sit down, and then he opened the window and kindly asked me if I smoked. The old man's tall body was very bright in the setting sun, and although his hair was gray, the muscles on his face were still strong, and there was a little stubble embedded in it, like a young shoot in a field after rain.

"I know you're interested in past cases." The old man suddenly stared into my eyes.

"Why?" I asked.

"Because I'm old."

Later, on that autumn evening when the sun was like blood, the old man and I smoked in front of a window covered with sycamore leaves, reminiscing about him and the events he had experienced.

I know that maybe all the stories started with this old man.