The prodigal son listens to prose.

At dusk, the setting sun shines obliquely on the window lattice, giving off a faint aftertaste, and the room is also dark. The coffee on the table was steaming, and she sat alone at the table, leafing through the letters that still smelled of old paper. The fragrance seems to be absent, but it is fascinating. Let the eyes pass by line by line, and the thoughts have drifted back to that time.

Think about it for about ten years. She is only seventeen or eighteen, a dreamy age. Everything is so beautiful, but also mixed with the unique acidity of that era. She is introverted and likes to walk alone on fallen leaves and listen to the sound of heartbreak; I like standing in front of the window for a long time, always watching the sound of falling rain, thinking about the poem "Leave the residual lotus to listen to the rain" that Daiyu also likes; Like full of warm words, willing to be torn by them; I like flowers, I like the quietness of flowers, and I am obsessed with simplicity ... Although she is addicted to these feelings that make her happy, she also has unknown anguish. She has few friends and lacks a listener, and wants to be a listener. Her only friend is a book. She likes readers. This time, her only friend brought her a real friend.

Looking through the reader, she accidentally saw the column of pen pal and stopped looking. This pen pal of the prodigal son is followed by a personal introduction, but it is not an introduction. "Wandering all the way, I will eventually meet someone who understands me: a clear water family, a desert island flower ..." I don't know why she suddenly wants to be friends with him. She summoned up her courage and sent the letter to his address with the idea of trying. At that time, she couldn't remember the contents clearly. No wonder she introduced her hobbies and personality.

She began to wait, imagining all kinds of possibilities, maybe there was no news, maybe there would be a reply, maybe his writing was beautiful, maybe he was reserved, maybe there would be another communication ... In short, the innocent girl's imagination would be fully exerted. It's really stupid and beautiful to think about it. She couldn't help laughing and took a sip of coffee.

Two weeks later, she finally waited for a reply. He said that his homework was a little busy and he didn't have time to reply immediately. He also said that because of the first communication, I was afraid that the sentence was not appropriate, and I wrote it many times before I dared to send it. At that time, she was so naive and sincere that she had forgotten all the pain of waiting. He also said that he likes flowers and nature, and he prefers orchids to chrysanthemums. They are similar and should have a common language. He also said something about his school.

Since then, they have started irregular correspondence, because they are all busy and reply a little late, plus she is in the north and he is in the south, so there will be one on average every month! Because I am not sure when the letter will arrive, I always look forward to it when I see the postman. It seems that the examination results of primary school students have been announced, and checking the mailbox has become a compulsory course. She was amused by her stupidity again.

She will choose stationery with faint fragrance, lace and cartoon patterns, and then copy the draft. How serious it is! After writing the letter, I will daydream and imagine his happiness when reading the letter. ...

Looking at his lines at this time, she remembered the delusion at that time. He is indeed as beautiful as she imagined, and his style of writing is natural and unrestrained, which prompted her to stick to her post. When replying, be careful in choosing words and making sentences, and dare not slack off. Moreover, in order to write beautiful sentences, I read many literary books. Now someone praises her for her good writing and beautiful handwriting, and she always gives him the credit.

In the exchange, they introduced the local customs and expressed their curiosity; Talking about things in school, there are happiness and anxiety, which decorate the joy and sadness of youth. When the other person is happy, he is also happy for it and tries to comfort himself under pressure. There is also a vision and confusion about the future; Of course, there is a sweet yearning for love ... everything is a memory of that time, harmonious in humor and relaxation.

At this time, I dug up a photo, which was hers. I remember one time he said that he liked the snow in the north and wanted a photo of her in the snow if possible.

At that time, photography was not as popular as it is today. She took pictures after the first snow, and the snow was still falling, but only her back and the unique beauty of the north. At that time, she forgot for some psychological reason, and seemed not to want to break her imagination. At the moment when the shutter was about to be pressed, she turned and left the back. She washed two and gave one away. Perhaps tacitly, in his next letter, he didn't ask why there was only a back, only that the photo was very nice. I remember she was so satisfied at that time, and he understood her! She couldn't help shaking her head. It was really simple at that time. She likes hazy feelings and longing.

A dried chrysanthemum slipped between the pages. She picked it up carefully, brushed her loose hair gently, and carefully put the flowers in the box containing the letter. At that time in autumn, he would put the wild chrysanthemums in his hometown in a book and fold them in a letter. She will also send red maple leaves. Then she picked up another letter. He mentioned that he saw many wild chrysanthemums on the mountain yesterday. It was a paradise for wild chrysanthemums, and she thought of scenery she had never seen before.

Keep your eyes on the last few lines. By then, they had gradually become familiar with it. He knows that she is introverted, not very cheerful, and a little depressed, so he will write one or two jokes at the end of each letter, some interesting things in school, and some jokes in joke books, which always amuse her. Sometimes when I am in a bad mood, I will take out my letter and read those jokes. I am always happy and a little touched. This habit continued and never changed until the number of letters gradually decreased, and even the last letter received still persisted. At this time, she was amused by this simple joke again.

Later, she was much more cheerful. If it is because of these jokes, it is really a joke, but at least it has his factors.

When she closed the letter, she unfolded a text that was not in the form of a letter. That's the story he copied. They have many similarities, and he also likes touching stories. Sometimes when I meet them, no matter how long it takes, he will personally deliver them. Moved by the story, she was also moved by his behavior, but he was also busy for only one reason: she liked it!

Holding the letter, I still feel romantic when I think about it now. He said that since everyone likes stories, let's write stories together, one by one. He started a paragraph, she continued to write a paragraph, and then he said that if there was nothing to say one day, he would stick to the story. Unfortunately, it didn't work out after all. No matter how beautiful the story is, there will always be an end.

She closed the letter and put it all in a delicate box. I went to the window and looked at it from a distance. At this time, there are stars outside.

Later, with QQ, everyone was busy, so they stopped writing and gradually lost contact. Maybe they will occasionally pay attention to each other's spatial dynamics, but they stubbornly don't leave a word. Maybe I'm just used to that "tranquility" and afraid of destroying that precious "beauty". In her opinion, she prefers pen pals. That simplicity and rate is really irreplaceable, and it is the memory of that era. For the fast-paced today, it has become a luxury. Although there are netizens, there is no such real feeling, and it seems that there is always a lack of that listener.

Although she knows the other person's name, she is still willing to call it the kind pen name-prodigal son, which is the memory of her youth, her loyal listener, her collection and a part of her life. Now it seems that dribs and drabs are still beautiful, and her mouth has been rising. At this time, she has no tears, but she is warm and full of happiness. She has been standing at the window for a long time. ...