The wind in September stole half of the sycamore tree, and the unsaid thoughts were folded into the autumn on the page; the veins of the leaves were as winding as the heartbeat, and the ink was soaked in the morning and dusk. Every stroke is an undercurrent, and the handwriting is a timid shadow. His lowered eyelashes when borrowing a book, the warm wind blowing in his face when his jersey was raised, the umbrella in the rain, and the clean scent of soap locust in the air. She shrunk herself into the quiet grass and walked over on her own initiative. The topics he handed over during the group discussion, the notebook he retrieved after the basketball game, and his words as the sun set: "Would you like to go to the study room together on the weekend?" The secrets are quietly full in the veins of the leaves, the broken thoughts, the teacher's words of encouragement ignite the glimmer of the soul, the porridge that the mother simmered until it became cold, and the cranberry biscuits he handed over were sweet enough to pry open the closed door of the heart. However, the shadow always pulls behind me, fearing that the sensitivity will scare away the migratory birds, fearing that the secret cannot be hidden, and the beautiful moment of being together will be shattered. The pages turned from pale to green. When the spring breeze stirred the sycamore trees again, could she gather enough courage to gently put the light in her heart into the young man's palm? ...
