已过凌晨3点,夜很静,很静。屋子里没有人说话,只有那个挂钟“哒哒”的走动声证明还有人的气息。娘轻轻地把弟弟所需的衣服展开,抚平,折起,又抚平,才轻轻地放进背包中。爹低着头,“吧嗒吧嗒”地抽着旱烟。他那饱经风霜、刻满了人生痕迹的糙脸没有动一下,像凝固了一般。弟弟坐在床沿,头靠着墙,微微湿润的双眼定定地望着娘。 It was past 3 in the morning. The night was very quiet and very quiet. No one in the room spoke, only the buzz of the wall clock “provoked” to prove that there was still human breath. The mother gently spreads the clothes the younger brother needs, smoothes them, folds them up, and smoothes them before gently putting them into the backpack. He bowed his head down and smoked dry smoke. His rough face, full of weather and life-engraved traces, did not move. It was like freezing. The younger brother sat on the edge of the bed and rested his head against the wall, his slightly moist eyes fixed on his mother.