地下室的角落里停着一辆经时光侵蚀的老旧单车,锈蚀的链条、布满灰尘的横梁、细绳缠绕的后座,诉说着岁月二字的残酷。乔苒伸手将横粱上的灰尘拂去,手指与钢铁碰触的瞬间,袭入她身体的,不仅有金属的冰凉感,还有那些只属于她的童年记忆——一辆黑色的老式单车行驶在乡间的小路上,横粱上坐着的女孩扎着俏皮的双马尾,稚气的童声编织成清甜的儿歌。女孩被两条有力的臂膀环绕着,她的小手紧抓住两个车把的中央,而握住车把的是一双生满老茧的大手。女孩唤这双手的主人“爷爷”。“爷爷,我唱歌好听吗?” In the corner of the cellar stood an old bike eroded by time, a rusty chain, dusty beams and a twine-wrapped rear seat, telling cruel words of time. Chaucer reached out to dust on the sorghum, touching the moment with his fingers and steel, reaching into her body not only with the coolness of the metal, but also her memory of her childhood - a black old-fashioned bicycle Driving in the country road, the girl sitting on the sorghum with a playful double pony tail, childish children’s weaving into a sweet children’s songs. The girl was surrounded by two powerful arms, her little hand grasping the center of the two handlebars, and the handlebars were a pair of big hands full of calluses. Girl called the hands of the owner “grandpa ”. “Grandpa, do I sing well?”