The arrival time in Lisbon was around 8 o'clock last night, and the Airbus 332 large aircraft was transferred to the Airbus 33A medium aircraft on the way.

Lisbon's city streets were deserted more than any other city in China, and the cool breeze made me have to hold my arms tight.

On the hill leading to the Dattahoe River. I received a call from Yiyi that the "Qing Xianju" had been sold according to my orders.

After hanging up the phone, I felt an inexplicable pain in my heart, it had been ten years since the phased end of the matter, a full ten years. "Quiet Residence" is the place where I started to experience all these things, there have been people who have warmed me and things that have happened to me that I will never forget.

During the ten years, I traveled to all corners of the world, and I kept traveling to force myself not to remember those sore spots, and Yiyi and Fat Man never took the initiative to mention those past experiences to me. I know that this is a protection for me, and the same protection that I have felt in many people who have passed away.

A hundred years from now, the people who are here, including me, will have long since disappeared from this land and turned into dust and ashes.

From the moment I decided to sell my home, I was ready for a new challenge. Saying goodbye to the past is not forgetting the past, but treating me as a remnant of the dead and continuing to finish what they left undone.

Now, what I can do is to "dig" those memories, those past experiences from the depths of my mind through words, and at the same time put my cowardice in it and seal it away temporarily. Raise the courage to go where I am needed, and perhaps when the matter is completely over, I will pick up these words again, and pick up the cowardice buried in the words together......

※※※

At the end of the eighties, I was born in the countryside of a small and inconspicuous city on the Liaodong Peninsula. Perhaps it is the barrier of the mountains, but the beauty and prosperity outside have not yet affected this peaceful mountain village.

At a time when the whole country was thriving, I didn't seem to be affected by the big times at all. Like my father and all the farmers who have lived here for generations, he has no idea about the upheaval of the outside world.

Before my sophomore year of high school, all I could remember was a few places and a few people—the school, the dilapidated courtyard, the little dark house in the courtyard, my father, and a well-dressed man.

This well-dressed man was my second uncle, my father's own brother.

I don't know where he lives, what profession he has, or even his name. I've never been up close to him, not even today. The portrayal of his impressions is peeked through the crack in the door of the dark little dark room.

A spotless white shirt underneath a black suit and a red tie that is somewhat glaring. The jaw that has been carefully shaved reveals the cyan color of the stubble. The wrinkles on my face went from the first time I saw them through the crack in the door, to the ones that filled the corners of my eyes. I thought it would have been clearer if I had laughed, but I had never seen him laugh.

The small black house is in the northeast corner of this dilapidated courtyard, about five meters away from the house where my father and I live, and is where the farm tools are kept. The person who chose this place for me was my father.

Knowing that the second uncle was coming, I would have been locked there in advance. I don't know why my father didn't let me have contact with my second uncle.

Out of adolescent rebellion, I tried to resist, and the crack in the iron door of the black room had been bent by me with an iron tool, but I still couldn't escape the restraints.

It was as if the two of them were discussing some unspeakable secret, and they usually disagreed, and I couldn't think of what kind of secret they didn't want me to know.

On Chinese New Year's Eve, my father died in my senior year of high school, committing suicide in that little dark room that I knew so well.

I think he must have been planning for this suicide for a long time, otherwise he wouldn't have separated his head from his body.

The last time I peeked through the crack in the door was a year before my father committed suicide, when one of the two men broke out in one of the most heated arguments in my memory, and during the argument, my father slapped him.

The sound was so loud that I still remember it vividly, it was the literal thump of my hand against my cheek.

After that quarrel, the second uncle never appeared again, not even his father's funeral, maybe he hated his father's heavy slap.

I had been studying hard before, and my plan to be admitted to a university in a distant city was shattered to stay away from my father. Because it is far away from coming in advance, and it is the eternal separation of heaven and man.

Since then, I have become unaccompanied, I don't know if I still have a similar existence to distant relatives, the only second uncle I know, when I can contact him openly, but disappeared without a trace.

For this reason, I had to take a temporary leave of absence (I was supposed to withdraw from school, but I took a leave of absence at the suggestion of my class teacher. ）。

The mystery that has accompanied me for more than ten years, no one can explain it for me.

In that dark little dark room, I dreamed of my mother, who had left me a few years after I was born, and I had asked her these mysteries that had troubled me, but there were no answers, only the familiar lullaby:

"Little baby go to sleep,

I snuggled up to each other in my dreams......"

This warm voice is the only memory I have of my mother......

After dealing with a series of things at home, in order to make a living, I had to temporarily choose to work in a restaurant for food and accommodation, and I never went back to the old house that I had bad memories of, and since then I have begun to live numbly.

The turning point came in the third month of my father's death......

※※※

In the afternoon, the breeze is warm.

I had just cleaned up the dishes and chopsticks that I had cleaned up at noon, and I sat in front of the restaurant with a boy of the same age named Ahsan who worked with me in the sun (the owner was very nice to us and could move freely as long as we completed the task).

The March days in the Northeast are very embarrassing, and the coats worn in the morning to protect against the cold are not useful at this time in the afternoon.

The sun hangs high in the sky like a shriveled red persimmon without moisture, and the sun warms people.

For three months after my father died, I spent the last three months trying to force myself not to think about the things that made me feel so sad.

Such a muddy day, such a superficial tranquility, was shattered by a phone call that afternoon, when the sky was clear and there was not even a single cloud in the sky.

"Hello, are you Mr. Su Mo?"

"It's me."

"I was entrusted by Sudi, oh, your second uncle to keep some items for him, and I need you to come and receive them yourself!"