At the end of the road, open a little shop, and you can idle away the rest of your life

Life is for living, but what kind of longing is this so-called life? It is simply wishing for a beloved, wishing for a quiet little shop, settling in a corner, and growing old together.

No need for bustling streets and crowds, only an ordinary lane, winding and slow. At the end of a path paved with bluestone slabs, open a little shop to make a living. A handwritten wooden sign tells of the passing of time, while flowers and plants grow quietly on their own. Every day, simple tea and plain meals; when there are customers, greet them; when there are none, read and write, living a leisurely life, idling away the rest of your years.

This shop will not be decorated luxuriously, yet it will bear the marks of time. The old curios in the shop watch over the young rights and wrongs. Though the space is not large, it will be very cozy, as warm as a home. Set a lamp in front of the door to light the way for every passerby.

Open the door to welcome guests each day, yet never seek a clamor of voices, bustling like a shopping mall. Every single thing in the little shop was personally sought out and brought back. If a customer hurries to buy something, perhaps your heart will still feel a little reluctant to part with it.

Business hours run from early morning to evening, yet often follow your mood. When you want to rest, just hang a closed sign at the door. Meeting is fate; not meeting is just ordinary.

This quiet lane mouth stages the joys and sorrows of life for us every day. The warmth of everyday life is at one end of the lane, and the breeze of the palm-leaf fan is at the other end.

Once enough rent has been earned, then live for yourself, so that you can find yourself even in work, read the books you like, paint a painting you want to paint, make a cake you want to eat. Days neither hurried nor slow, and that is already very content.

Day after day, year after year, let the moss in front of the door bloom with flowers. On the mottled old wall, the traces of time can no longer be made out; in their place is a wall of green vines swaying in the wind, letting us know that time is still changing everything, neither slow nor hurried.

Years later, you and I quietly grow old. The books once turned page by page are worn and old, the bright shirts have faded from their former colors, and hair has turned gray, but luckily, there is still you, and still this little shop......

--THE END--

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