The Jordans’ living room felt like a museum of unfinished moments. Rain tapped softly against the windows, casting a silvery gloom over the cramped space. Ten-year-old Lily lay sprawled on the carpet, her crayons screeching across paper as she drew jagged kites and lopsided tombstones. Beside her, six-year-old Max shredded sheets of printer paper into confetti, tossing the fragments into the air like ceremonial ghost money. Their parents, Mr. and Mrs. Jordan, sat at opposite ends of the sagging sofa, their faces illuminated by the cold glow of their phones. A forgotten speaker played a generic “spring renewal” soundtrack — birdsong and trickling water — that only deepened the sense of artificiality.
Qingming Festival had always been a day of crisp rituals for the Jordans. In years past, they would wake early, pack chrysanthemums and oranges into woven baskets, and drive to the hillside cemetery where Mrs. Jordan’s grandparents rested. The children would chase each other among the headstones, their laughter mingling with the scent of burning incense. After tidying the graves, they’d picnic under cherry blossom trees, their fingers sticky with Qingtuan, the emerald-green rice dumplings filled with sweet bean paste. But this year, the forecast had warned of thunderstorms, and Mrs. Jordan, citing “practicality,” canceled the trip. “We’ll light virtual candles on the family app,” she’d said, though no one had bothered to log in.
Now, the absence of tradition hung heavier than the rain clouds. Lily glanced at her mother, who was engrossed in a live stream of a Kyoto cherry blossom festival. “Mom,” she ventured, holding up her drawing — a stick-figure family standing beside a tombstone she’d colored neon pink. “Does Great-Grandma like pink?”
“Hmm? Sure, sweetie,” Mrs. Jordan replied, her thumb flicking upward in a reflexive like.
Mr. Jordan, meanwhile, scrolled through an article titled “The Digitization of Grief: How Modern Families Honor Ancestors.” He paused at a photo of a high-tech columbarium in Singapore, where QR codes replaced headstones. A notification buzzed — a reminder from his fitness app:“1,000 steps to daily goal!” He stood abruptly. “Maybe we should... take a walk?”
Max lobbed a paper ball at the ceiling. “Boring.”
The room lapsed back into silence, broken only by the crinkle of paper and the tinny laughter from Mrs. Jordan’s video. Outside, the rain thickened, blurring the world into a watercolor wash. Lily’s crayon snapped. “This is the worst Qingming ever,” she announced, hurling the broken stub across the room. It struck the family photo on the mantel — a snapshot from last year’s grave visit, their smiles bright against the misty hills.
The clatter jolted Mrs. Jordan. She stared at the photo, then at her children — Lily scowling, Max now dismantling a sofa cushion. Guilt prickled her throat. Closing her phone, she knelt beside Lily.
注意：
(1)续写词数应为150个左右；
(2)请按如下格式在答题卡的相应位置作答。
Paragraph 1: “What if...we make Qingtuan? Like Great-Grandma taught me?”
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Paragraph 2: As dusk settled, the imperfect steamed Qingtuan emerged.
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