After reading Shen Congwen's *Border Town*, I came to this small border town.

The bluestone slabs are soaked in the morning mist, stilt houses lean against the cliffs, and ferrymen still use thick hemp ropes to connect the smoke and fire on both sides of the river. Turning a corner, I encountered an old mill beneath a white pagoda, its wooden wheels creaking and turning the time described in Shen Congwen's writings—there are no neon lights of bar streets here, only the flying fingers of the grandmother in the bamboo weaving shop, weaving the warp and weft of the years. A yellow dog dozes on the doorstep, cured meat glistens under the eaves, and even sorrow is like the dusk that Cuicui waited for, brewed by the river into amber tenderness. When all the ancient towns have become outposts for Yiwu small commodities, only here still resides an untamed, wild poetry. Shen Congwen's *Border Town* says: All encounters are predestined, just as the book says: Everything has a coincidental coincidence, but the result is an inevitable fate.