"Boss, another pack of spicy strips and a bottle of cola." He placed the money on the counter.
The owner grabbed a handful of change and handed it to him, his eyes never leaving the television. He took the change and looked down, only to find that he had been given fifty cents too much.
He wanted to tell the man he had overpaid him in change. His mouth opened slightly, but the words reached his lips and abruptly stopped.
In the past, he would definitely have said something. He had always believed that one should not take petty advantage of others; that was the "right" principle he had clung to. But now, he could not help wondering: what would happen if he said nothing? Nothing would change. And what would happen if he spoke up? Still nothing.
All at once, he could no longer tell right from wrong, nor did he want to.
He no longer wished to use reason to measure right and wrong. He only wanted to follow his own feelings.
He stood there, the extra fifty cents clenched in his palm, his mouth half-open. In the end, he said nothing—not because he deliberately chose to conceal it, but because he instinctively forgot about it.
He picked up the spicy strips and cola, turned, and left. Reaching the riverbank, he sat atop the embankment.
The setting sun dyed the entire river orange-red, making the view exceptionally beautiful. In the past, a line of ancient poetry would have immediately surfaced in his mind, followed by a brief aesthetic appreciation, then a swift descent into melancholy reflection.
Those three steps flowed together seamlessly, so fast that he could not truly take in the scenery itself.
But now, he deliberately cut off those extraneous thoughts. The sunset spread across the