When the scent of Sophora japonica in late spring spreads through the classroom window lattice, when I was a student, I would always roll up the cuffs of my school uniform in two extra folds - in this way, the sun marks left by the season could be completely hidden in the shadows. The sheepskin notebook is open, the pen tip is running over the annotations of "Twenty-Four Solar Terms", and the ink is spreading out the word "Zhu Ming", which is like the sunset outside the window at this moment.
"Huaizhiyanhuaiye..." Youth suddenly came over in a drawl. The collar of his sweatshirt was still stained with the red soil of the volleyball court. His reckless fingertips passed over the yellowed pages of the book, causing a few dust particles to dance in the slanting light. Suddenly, laughter came from the back door, and several boys were booing around the newly posted red list of the monthly exam. The glass window reflected someone's eyelashes that suddenly lowered.
In this campus engraved by the growth rings of ancient locust trees, everyone's youth has unique wrinkles. The hem of the skirt is always ironed like a piano key, and the plant specimens collected in the mezzanine of the schoolbag are brewing the courage to break through the frozen soil in an unknown corner.
The moment the dean rang the evening self-study bell, the light and shadow of the seventeen-year-old were frozen in the chalk dust into an eternal montage. When the cicada finally broke away from the branches of the neem tree, these teenagers suddenly realized: It turns out that youth is never a one-act play. Those seemingly parallel growth trajectories have long been woven into the warp and weft of destiny by the subtle fragrance of Sophora japonica in an inadvertent afternoon.
