Another dusk, but the setting sun in Shanghai still carried a venomous heat amid the cicada noises. I wearily squinted my eyes and mechanically opened the mailbox. Among a large pile of bills and advertisements, an inconspicuous earth-colored envelope slowly slipped to the ground. Bending down to pick it up, I noticed that the envelope, with its cracked surface, was rather crude, seemingly hand-made. The sender was a stranger from an unfamiliar address. On the back, Indian stamps bore multiple postmarks, indicating that it had already been forwarded through many places. My memory search turned out fruitless, but a strong sense of confusion and curiosity drove me to tear open the envelope immediately without going back to my room.