He walked into a gallery with the faint fragrance of teak, and the alcove in front of him was hung by a picture frame with silver-white delicate lace, and he couldn't help but stand on it, and the world inside the painting made people feel a chill. The familiar streets covered in ice and snow are full of desolation and loneliness. The painting shows an old man with a sad but tough face, the old man is struggling to ride a dilapidated three-way car, and the blank and lonely figure is trying to tell the world something.

A middle-aged man in a long trench coat similarly approaches the painting.

"Do you like this painting very much?"

"Yes, it doesn't seem to be very recent, and it's very familiar to me, but I can't remember it—it's like I've seen this place somewhere."

"Yes, the background of this painting is Qingdao Road."

"Qingdao Road?"

"Of course, the author who painted this picture is the owner of Kiyono Painting Shop."

"And who are you?"

"Of course, he's my friend."

"Do you know how the story happened?"

Then the middle-aged man fell into memory.

"It was winter, the sky was gray, snowflakes could fall in any visible corner of the city, and the cold wind was raging in the city, and there should have been men and women walking through this commercial street. But under the heavy snow, there was not a single pedestrian to be seen. Only one gallery still stands on this somewhat deserted shopping street. As soon as the wind blows, the bell outside the door makes a clanging sound. But now he didn't dare to make a sound from the cold, and even the glass door was covered with a thick layer of frost, and of course, he would not continue to fight with the ice-covered streets.

After inspecting the facilities in the store, he breathed a sigh of relief and prepared to give himself a short vacation. He was also going to take out the waste carton at the door and throw it into the garbage bin, because the snow was trampled by the constant pedestrians into a big puddle, so he laid these two layers of cardboard box shells at the entrance of the store to avoid wetting the freshly laid floor in the store due to water stains. Probably the reason why there have been no guests to visit again in the afternoon, that's waste

The wet dirty mud on the carton gradually dried up and condensed, but there were still black footprints left on it. Even if such waste cartons are sold for money, they will not sell much at all. Admittedly, he doesn't calculate these small gains and losses, and the garbage bins in the commercial street are not far from his shop, and they are only less than twenty meters away, and they can be walked in three or two steps.

The moonlight grew darker, and his brow furrowed slightly, and he thought that he would soon see his daughter, who was going to school in the far south. Then his eyes gradually bent into crescents, and dimples appeared on his cheeks like a potholed lake, and he closed the roller shutter door with joy.

The moon at the beginning of the year is also mutilated, revealing a faint glow. At the same time, on the street where no pedestrians were visible, from the deep street in the distance, the figure of an old man riding a bicycle was slowly sketched, the heavy snow condensed on the ground, and it was very difficult for him to pedal slowly, the wheels "creaked", the dark wheels trembled and left a few marks in the snow, this tired old man rode and dragged a rusty tricycle and broke down in front of his shop in a panic, like a cruise ship full of wind and frost returning from a long voyage.

The old man straightened his waist, blew away the cold air in front of his face, and trembled and wanted to jump off the saddle of the sponge pad, and even the pedals had fallen halfway, leaving only one and a half rounds of subway bars.

He took the opportunity to take advantage of the dim street lamp to casually look at the old man who had left footprints on the snow, rubbing his trembling hands, his wrinkled and chapped face, his frozen purple lips, and his eyelids were heavily pressed by the cold hat on his head. He looked at the lonely old man like withered grass with a detached gaze.

The moon hung diagonally in the sky, shining on the cold, lonely, depressed, lonely streets—and the old man, and the scene remained silent for a while.

The old man stood there and looked at him, as if he had something to say, but he wanted to say nothing. They stood in front of the house and looked at each other like squirrels meeting each other for the first time.

Oh, at last, it was the old man who broke the silence, and a few strands of messy white hair followed from his cold hat like restless branches

The cold wind swayed, and the old man pieced together an ugly smile from his already loose flesh, raised his frozen arms, pointed to the waste cardboard box in his hand, moved his lips and said, "This gentleman, I'll help you throw away the cardboard box." “

The old man's voice was hoarse, deep, and cowardly. But there was a force that was more fierce and shivering than this biting cold wind, and this indescribable power penetrated through the thick cotton clothes, through the distance of only a few steps, and hit him deep inside.

Following the old man's wistful gaze, and in the face of the old man's earnest and cowardly request, where he had reason to refuse, he lowered his head—no, almost dejectedly, at the waste cardboard box that he was about to take and throw away.

Seeing that he didn't speak, the old man gently pulled down the cold hat on his head with his curled left hand, and then said in a hoarse voice, "Look...... I'm dropping by......"

In this cold winter, when the air was frozen and frozen, he looked at the old man's somewhat choked expression, and felt that the blood in his body flowed through his back like a hot spring, and hot tears began to fill his eyes.

At this time, he was no longer thinking about himself, nor of his daughter, and his joy was occupied by a wave of pity, and he just nodded blankly at the old man's suddenly lowered face.

The old man walked over and took the waste carton from his hand with boring skinning hands, which seemed to have a trace of residual heat. A look of guilt crossed the old man's face, and the old man continued to whisper thank him in a voice that was even lower and softer than before. He pedaled the tricycle without looking back, leaving him standing silently under the gray sky, and a sharp wind mixed with the sound of wind chimes woke him up, but his eyes gradually brightened.

The moon still hung like hornless ivory in the sky, and the sky became obscure again.

Since then, the painting has been shortlisted as one of the most influential paintings in China in the 21st century, and it also represents the real environment of the bustling 21st century urban "scavenging" old people. Its bleak life, its vicissitudes of life, and the dilapidated tricycle that spanned two centuries have become classics of art and history.

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