All the Warmth Was Only Rented

As I write this paragraph, the summer nights of my childhood come to mind: Always very long. Mosquitoes fluttered under the lamp, making a buzzing sound. Grandma looked at the stars in the sky and counted them one by one, but she couldn't count them all. My friends next door often come to play with me. We caught fireflies, put them in glass bottles, and watched the green light flicker. Sometimes I would go to the fields to steal watermelons, but I would be chased by the old man watching the melons. I would fall into a ditch and return home covered in mud, where I would be scolded. Of course, it is indispensable to catch the "chicken cicadas" (cicadas) that have been calling all summer... Now that I think about it, those days are like fireflies, flashing brightly and dimly in my memory, and I can never catch them again.

The emotions are delicate, and wherever you read, the intimacy and reality of your childhood always come to mind. Through the coldness on the back of the paper, I can feel the tragic growth of a young man who is struggling to survive and is trapped and beaten by fate.