Old Man Mo is like an inkstick that isn’t particularly dark yet lingers pleasantly—settled at the bottom of the inkstone, neither competing nor clamoring, yet carrying a weight of its own. He doesn’t speak, he simply exists—a spiritual symbol of the community, never stirring emotions, never peddling anxiety, never offering shallow promises. He resembles an old wall, weathered by wind and frost yet always warm to the touch; like an aged lamp, its light gentle yet steadfast enough to accompany someone deep into the night.
He understands the noise and turbulence of this era, so he does just one t
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