残阳如潮水退去,余晖依次掠过龟裂的门板、青石条门槛、灰土砌成的老墙、望杆上残破的幌子。天空渐行渐暗,不片刻,苍穹已黑,竹林空地处的茅屋在此时也亮起了灯火。石城坐在桌前,凝望着手中的刀,秋风从门缝里钻入,油灯的火舌晃动着,将不大的打铁铺照得黑一片红一片。他清楚地记得,距今五年零一个月前,自己成了铁匠,重新磨砺了这柄刀。刀刃处有三点淡纹斜贯,正是缺刃处。石城伸手抚触,似乎仍可感觉当年的雪冷与火热。门环轻轻叩动,打断了他的遐思,门外传来说话声:“老石叔,没睡吧?” As the tide receded, the twilight sweeps over the cracked door, the threshold of the bluestone, the old wall of gray soil and the broken facade of the pole. The sky dimming, not a moment, the sky has been dark, bamboo hut at the empty house at this time also lit the lights. Shicheng sat at the table, staring at the hands of the knife, the autumn wind into the cracks in the door, the flame of the oil lamp shaking, not too big blacksmith shop in the dark. He clearly remembered that five and a half months ago he had become a blacksmith and re-sharpened the knife. There are three points at the blade streaky oblique, it is the lack of edge. Shicheng reach out and touch, it seems still feel that year's snow cold and hot. Knocked gently knocking the door knocker, interrupted his reveries, the door came to speak: “old stone uncle, did not sleep?”