Deep in the alley is a noodle shop, and the owner is an old man.
The old man has white hair and is lean. When he was sitting leisurely on the front steps smoking, through the misty smoke, I could clearly see the vicissitudes of life in his turbid but profound eyes.
Noodle shops don’t have signboards. Every early morning, before people in the alley get up, the door of the noodle shop opens. The incense flowed out from the small door and spread to the windowsill of every house. As a result, people were dragged out of their sleep by the fragrance, walked into the shop, sat at the table, and waited for their bowl of fragrance. Only then did I realize: If this store had a sign, it would be vulgar.