I'm back, walking through alleys and street corners, pushing open the courtyard gate. Huh, why is the ground covered in sand and gravel? I remember the courtyard used to be paved with cement. I look up, the main door of the house is closed. Climbing up the walls under the eaves is a kind of green vine plant that I don't recognize, dotted with sporadic blue and white flowers. There's also a buzzing sound. Oh, it's bees. In the corner of the wall, there's a tree blooming with white flowers, surrounded by a busy group of bees. Is it spring now? I always thought it was autumn. I remember when I was walking back, it was autumn in the city. The leaves of the French plane trees on both sides of the street had already started to fall. Did I leave the city, go through a whole winter, and only return to my hometown in spring? Did I remember it wrong? Everything in the courtyard is different from before, or did I enter the wrong gate? The appearance and number of the courtyard gate haven't changed at all. Suddenly, a sense of panic rushes over me, followed by a flash of thought: I've lost some memories, yes, that's probably it. I urgently search in my mind, and blank spaces pass by on the timeline of time. I vaguely remember the people I had contact with before leaving, a woman leaning against the railing of a crowded street, occasionally turning her face to say something to me, her eyes bright with a smile, and a faint, elusive and mysterious meaning. It was evening, and the dark red sunset was sinking behind her in that crimson evening glow... Then we walked side by side under the streetlights, and fireworks bloomed in the sky like dandelions... And I noticed that people on the street didn't wear masks before, but now... I don't know why...
I may have forgotten a lot, including who I am. Actually, even without amnesia, I may not necessarily understand who I am. So, the most urgent matter is not to figure out who I am, but what I should do next, where should I go. I hesitate in front of the door hidden by the green vines, afraid to push it open. I don't know how long it's been since I last came back, whether the people inside remember me, whether they can still recognize me.
★ The last paragraph attempts to convey (imitate) the atmosphere of Kafka's short story "The Metamorphosis," but it doesn't really capture that style.