When dusk comes, there are always stories hidden on old windowsills. In those years, the boy told his secrets to the evening breeze, his school uniform was smelling of sweet-scented osmanthus, and his draft paper was filled with unspoken names. From the noisy midsummer with the chirping of cicadas to the cold winter when the first snow falls on your shoulders, the window sill witnesses clumsy heartbeats, quarrels between friends, and also hides the lights of staying up late fighting for dreams. When the graduation bell rang and the evening breeze blew by again, I realized that some regrets and beauty, together with the old window sill, had become the most unforgettable footnotes in youth.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
