沙发 – The Sofa

shā fā

Xuān guān de dēng guāng hūn huáng, yìng zhe chá jī shàng yì zhī gū líng líng de chá bēi. Nà zhāng lǎo jiù de shā fā zhàn jù kè tīng zhōng yāng, shā fā shàng liǎng gè tuì sè de kào diàn wāi xié zhe, xiàng pí bèi de lǚ rén. Wǒ xí guàn xìng de bào qǐ yí gè bào zhěn, què fā xiàn jiǎo luò lǐ lìng yí gè bào zhěn yǐ jīng mó pò le biān.

Chá jī shàng chú le chá bēi, hái yǒu yì zhāng fàn huáng de zhào piàn. Zhào piàn lǐ, mǔ qīn zǒng ài bǎ kào diàn zhěng zhěng qí qí de pái hǎo, fù qīn zé xǐ huān bǎ bào zhěn suí shǒu rēng zài shā fā fú shǒu shàng. Rú jīn, xuān guān zài yě tīng bú jiàn tā men de jiǎo bù shēng, zhǐ shèng kōng dàng de shā fā hé liǎng gè kào diàn mò mò xiāng duì.

Wǒ zuò jìn shā fā, bǎ liǎng gè bào zhěn dōu lǒu zài huái lǐ. Chá jī de biān jiǎo kē guò wǒ de xī gài, xiàng yí gè wú shēng de zé bèi. Xuān guān de fēng líng hū rán xiǎng le yì shēng, wǒ huí tóu qù kàn, zhǐ yǒu mén fèng lǐ lòu jìn yí xiàn yuè guāng.

Yuán lái zhè jiān kè tīng lǐ, zuì jì mò de bú shì chá jī, bú shì kào diàn, yě bú shì bào zhěn, ér shì nà zhāng chéng zài guò quán jiā huān xiào de shā fā. Tā jìng jìng de děng zài nà lǐ, děng yí gè yǒng yuǎn bú huì huí lái de yōng bào.

The Sofa

The dim light in the hallway reflected a lonely teacup on the tea table. The old sofa occupied the center of the living room, with two faded cushions askew on it, like weary travelers. I habitually picked up a throw pillow, only to find that another throw pillow in the corner had frayed edges.

Besides the teacup, there was also a yellowed photo on the tea table. In the photo, my mother always liked to arrange the cushions neatly, while my father liked to casually toss the throw pillows onto the sofa armrests. Now, the hallway no longer hears their footsteps, only the empty sofa and two cushions silently facing each other.

I sat into the sofa, holding both throw pillows in my arms. The corner of the tea table bumped my knee, like a silent reproach. The wind chime in the hallway suddenly rang once; I turned to look, only to see a thread of moonlight leaking through the crack in the door.

It turns out that in this living room, the loneliest is not the tea table, not the cushions, nor the throw pillows, but the sofa that once bore the laughter of the whole family. It waits quietly there, waiting for an embrace that will never return.

音频

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