The plaque is very old, made of reddish-brown wood.
It seems to have weathered many years of wind and rain, already showing some cracks, carrying a sense of antiquity and age, yet not as tacky as the contemporary plaques.
Qiao Mo withdrew her gaze and turned to look at his side profile.
He stood at the door, gazing absentmindedly inside the shop, at the old television, somewhat worn tables and chairs, and memories began to surface bit by bit from the depths of his thoughts...
"How is it? Is it delicious?" a girl with pigtails confidently asked.
"It's okay." Sitting opposite her was a boy in a white shirt, sitting upright, looking slightly older than her.
"If you don't like it, then don't eat it."
Saying this, the girl moved a serving of soup dumplings on the table to her own side, as if protecting the food.
"Who said I don't like it."
Back then, they seemed to have known each other not for long.
...
