This wall is old, and the number of people basking in the sun under the wall has changed one after another, and there are fewer and fewer people.

In winter at that time, sunshine was always a luxury. After frost has formed on the ground, the east wall facing the sun is always crowded with people, waiting for the belated ray of weak sunshine. But the sunlight is still too weak, so everyone in the village likes to stand, sit, squat or lean in a row, carrying a fire cage for heating.

The older ones cover themselves with an apron tied around their waists, and the fire cage is sandwiched between their legs, which can preserve the temperature more and longer than others. The fire cage contained soft charcoal fire taken from the stove, which could at least drive away some of the coldness on the outside. Nuan Nuan's wrinkled hands were still digging dirt in the ground yesterday, and black dirt could still be seen between the fingernails. Heating those chapped feet wearing worn and torn cloth socks, they had stepped on the wet ground yesterday, and the cold wind blew through the cracks mercilessly, causing the wounds to be covered with scabs. When it is broken, the bright red flesh is exposed, like a sweet potato dug out of the ripe ground. It is bumpy and not smooth at all. At this moment, they sat motionless at the base of the wall, greedily absorbing the slight sunlight to replenish their own heat. Including the old ox lying down and chewing grass, the khaki dog coiled up in a circle, and the old hen with its head tucked under its wings.

The first ray of sunlight coming from the top of Baima Mountain casts the shadow of the tall chestnut tree branch not far away onto the exposed wall. That wall was originally in good shape. I don’t know when it fell down. It must have been before I was born, maybe before my mother was born, or maybe when my great-grandfather was still alive. Half of it fell, and half of it remained, standing tenaciously. There. The winds of the four seasons blow it one after another, blowing away a few grains of soil today and a few grains of yellow sand tomorrow, slowly eroding it, and the top of the wall is no longer smooth and has no edges. The rain falls from the clouds, sometimes thinly, sometimes thickly, sometimes slantingly, without any scruples. Without the wall of the roof, no one can protect it. It seems like it should be like this, but these wind and rain have no effect on the old wall. It didn't make much sense. It was slowly carved and polished. I don't know what purpose it would be used for. After many years, only a few clumps of weeds grew on the top of the wall. All things have their own way, whether they are animals or plants, they all have life. Life lasts, and grass and trees fall one autumn, but does the soil have life? That wall has stood here for a long time. It should be a bit painful, which can be seen in the small and large zigzag gaps in the wall. Judging from the fearless expression, it seems that it has long been in tacit understanding with these windy and rainy games and has long been accustomed to it.

The wind in winter is harsher than the sun. Once the sun is blown by the wind, the heat will disappear, leaving only the dark lines left on the ground through the branches and roofs. I don’t know which direction those winds are blowing from. They are more familiar with this village and this old wall than I am. It swept over the treetops, blowing off the leaves hanging on the trees. The wind blows these leaves into the gaps between clothes and pants, and the slightest breeze can freeze into the bone marrow. It accurately passed through the gaps in the wall. The people at the base of the wall could only shrink their necks and hurriedly moved to the other side of the wall. The wind passed over the wall and just ignored the group of people carrying the fire cage.

This wall is still there, but it is getting old. The number of people basking in the sun under its roots has changed one after another, and there are fewer and fewer people. There are no more children quietly watching ants foraging under it, sniffing their noses and wiping them with their sleeves, carrying fire cages and simmering beans in small Pechoin boxes; there are no more people chatting with fire cages between their legs...

Almost everything that should be forgotten has been forgotten, and many of them happened before, before I could remember them, and my memory is completely blank. For example, I would cry loudly since I was born, open my eyes, look at this strange world, grab the straw on the bed and stuff it into my mouth; for example, one month after I was born, my mother and I were kicked out by the "little generals" There was only a shabby room, and not even a few daily necessities and a liter of rice were brought out. A kind neighbor brought a few handfuls of straw and a coir raincoat, and my mother and I slept on the stone steps of the old house. It was also in winter, and it was such an afternoon with very weak sunlight. I didn’t know all this until later, at the foot of that old wall, at an age when I didn’t seem to understand. The parents narrated it very calmly, as if they were telling someone else's story and everything was as it should have happened. In the years to come, when the group was busy and lively, I would suddenly drift away from their topics and watch their carnival like a stranger. I liked being alone. I wondered if it had something to do with it. The sunshine that year was too weak. The stone along the steps is too cold.

I didn’t see that old wall again for several winters. I was led by my father through the mountain road, to Xuanping I took a shuttle bus that smelled of gasoline, and then transferred to a car. I walked a lot, exhausted from a big house in one place to a big house in another place.

Due to the impact of the movement, my father no longer had time to take care of me, so he had no choice but to put me at my grandfather's house. After all, this is where my father was born, where he grew up, and where the seasonal winds blew him to a distant place. In fact, they are all the same villages, the same houses, and the same fields, but the villages are big or small, the houses are new or old, the fields are flat or bumpy, and the soil is fertile or poor. I can no longer remember my father’s face when he was young, let alone what his back looked like when he finally pulled my hand away decisively and walked away in the morning mist.

Many years later, I still seem to remember that scene clearly. I held my father's feet tightly with both hands, and on the gravel-strewn road in front of the kitchen door of my grandfather's house, I cried and shouted that I wanted to go home with my father.

What kind of season is that? I really can’t remember exactly, maybe it was early spring, maybe late autumn, but it must have been in the early morning of a certain season with a thin fog, I can be sure of this.

I cried myself to sleep that night. My voice was hoarse from crying. I couldn't understand what my grandparents said, what the people in their village said, and what they said was completely different from mine. The village shrouded in night no longer has the familiar atmosphere to me, everything is strange. The night pours into the house, which is both cold and scary, and I feel lonely as never before. Grandma blew out the oil lamp, and I curled up in a corner of the bed, like a little animal that had left its mother, hiding in a hole in the wilderness for fear of being exposed, for fear of losing myself and being swallowed by the night. Thinking of the cold winter days, the dog huddled up behind the old wall to avoid the biting wind and preserve the little warmth.

I lay on the windowsill of another space, listening to the unfamiliar language, and looked at a few poplar trees in the patio. I have never seen any poplar trees, only pine and fir trees and some miscellaneous trees. Follow the treetops and look at a few lonely, cold stars in the sky. They were all asleep, and the oil lamps were extinguished. I was the only one awake, with tears pouring out one after another. I couldn't hear the sound of the quietly flowing stream, and couldn't see the silhouette of the distant mountains under the moonlight. The wind-blown thatch on both sides of the old wall was nowhere to be seen until I went to a distant dream where the wind could not reach it.

When I got used to speaking Wuyi dialect and forgot Xuanping dialect and returned to the village, the old wall was still there, not much shorter than before. As the years pass, the gap gets wider and wider. I am one year older, and it is also one year older. Those carrying fire cages have been hung on the wall one by one, and those watching the ants scattered in the direction of the rising or setting sun and walked far away. There is no longer anyone carrying a fire cage at the foot of the wall to pursue the sunshine. More walls joined them, more people walked out of that wall. The life of a wall is longer than that of a person. If it is tamped tightly, it will not fall down no matter how much wind and rain it goes through. It is carved into the shape of the vicissitudes of life. It stands there quietly, watching people coming and going, dogs and chickens coming and going, Silently recording the story that happened before its eyes. Under the old wall, many people came and many people left. Now, cows, chickens, and dogs rarely pass by it, and it feels a little lonely.

A few days ago, when I walked by the wall again, grass grew inside and outside the wall, and there were insects chirping in the grass. When the first ray of sunshine in the morning came over, the shadow of the wall was already very short, and the shadow of the chestnut tree branches and leaves stretched very far. It is really old and can no longer protect those who seek shelter from wind and rain. The once weak sunlight was stronger than before, passing through the cracks in the old wall that were constantly breaking, and fell on the ground for more than one meter. It finally penetrated the old wall in my heart.

About the author: Han Jianfeng, loves photography and writing, and is a member of the Zhejiang Photographers Association.