Two decades ago, the road was silent, and I heard the angry roar of the Yangtze River. At that time, Song Yige was also alone, occasionally glancing at the distant shadows: two young men were sitting in a racing car, with the third standing on the rear of a racing car, leading the way. Song Yige was afraid they would discover him, always whispering and cautious. The sky was blue as water, the clouds were scattered, and the young men rode on the high plains, defying the wind, riding faster and faster.
Song Yan seemed to hold back her tears, her lips trembling. She remembered when three young men were playing in the water under the Yangtze River. Coming to the river bank, looking back, in the boat floating on the river, she watched the three young men like water ghosts, their faces emerging from the stone pile, looking at themselves. Their delicate faces were like beautiful flowers. The blue mountains plunged into the water, making their bodies stained with water waves, transparent and clear, their eyes purer than the water waves. The young girl stared fixedly at his face. Her hand held his clothes; later, he would be her husband.
The river flowed east, splashing and surging, washing away the body, hair floating on the water’s surface. The young men had long disappeared. She took out the three-person photo from her memory, placed it on the water surface, like a performance on a screen, looking deeply down, then suddenly standing up, jumping away with the river water. The river water rolled and churned, flowing day and night, crossing high mountains, passing through thousands of miles. Sometimes the water surged high, shocking and thundering; sometimes it was calm and gentle, flat as a mirror. But no matter how the river changed, how its momentum shifted, it always moved towards the distant direction, towards the great sea.
