📖 故事文本
Sometimes when I'm walking home late, I find myself throwing small regrets into the night, like someone tossing coins into a river, hoping the current will make them feel lighter. There's this absurd, human instinct to steal back a piece of your past—an apology you never gave, a goodbye you thought was spoken—only to realize those moments were already stolen by time. Returning to that place in your head doesn't fix anything, but it does change the weight you carry. I remember clutching a napkin with a phone number I never called, thinking if I could just get it back I'd be different; instead I learned that holding on is not the same as moving forward. The weird grace is that the city keeps collecting our small losses, then hands us something honest in return: a clearer sense of which things were mine all along and which were never meant to stay.