Low Walls and Blackboards: They Bring Tears to My Eyes

My hometown still has these waist-high walls, with varying shades of moss, and the houses behind it seemed to deliberately step back, giving it a quiet space.

There's a black chalkboard on the wall, rectangular in shape. The years have changed its color, and it's developed deep cracks.

This was where I first went to school. My mother brought me a boiled egg, and I used it to roll back and forth on the pages of a new book – a guaranteed hundred points.

Nothing's left now. There used to be a small playground, with a mountain on the south side, where you could jump from over three meters high onto the playground. We used to compete to see who had the biggest courage. On the left was a chicken farm, and on the right was a brick factory. No one remembers what we learned here, but we can't quite forget something. What is it? I don't know.

There's still this circular valve by the reservoir. As children, we used to bathe naked here, often running out after a few turns, then sprinting into the water. It's a water level regulator, silent and unconcerned with the passage of time.