September rain always carries a sticky dampness, like the unspoken farewell between Lin Wanqiu and Shen Yan.
Three years ago, she dragged her suitcase and turned around, not daring to look into the eyes of the boy in the white shirt at the bus stop; three years later, a phone call from his mother dragged her back to the ward that smelled of disinfectant. The diagnosis of late-stage gastric cancer was like a rusty lock, blocking the joy of reunion, leaving only silence in the room.
He once said that rainy days were the best time to stew pork rib soup, that he would buy her the biggest casserole, and that the orange candies in his pocket would always be prepared for her; but she, in countless late nights, stared blankly at the pot of green radish he raised, chewing the unspoken "turn back" into bitterness.
When a belated visit meets the countdown to life, the stubbornness, misunderstanding and deep love buried by time finally become clear in the autumn rain. It's just that the frost has arrived, and it's a little warm. Is there still time to warm up?
