When the first ginkgo leaf fell on the window sill of the library, the wind quietly recorded all the shapes - when the notebook of Lin Xi, a girl from the Chinese department, was blown open, Chen Yu, a freshman in the computer department, was looking down to pick up the page of the poem "Burned Norton" written on it. From campus to wedding dress, from two to three, over the past thirty years, ginkgo leaves have hidden too many secrets: walking side by side when the library is closed, love poems hidden in codes, wrinkled peace charms outside the delivery room, ginkgo specimens suddenly appearing in children's schoolbags... Zhou Mingyu's white roses have been thanked again and again. There are no ginkgos in the autumn of Shenzhen, but "The Little Prince" in London has an unopened promise. When Eucalyptus uses code to write a confession across the strait, when Xiaoxing throws herself into the candlelight of her eighteenth birthday with scars all over her body, we finally understand: the shape of the wind is never a straight line, just like the growth rings on the spine of a book, and every notch is a gentle footnote of time. Those leaves that were torn apart by misunderstandings and longings that were stretched by distance will eventually return to their original appearance over the years - it turns out that the most touching thing is not that they will never be separated, but that no matter where the wind blows, there is always a ginkgo leaf that remembers how we loved.
I like the heroine [smile]