At dusk at the age of seventeen, two birds sat on the window sill of the library at the same time. He used a pencil to draw their overlapping shadows on the back of the book, and she inserted a four-leaf clover into the "Illustrated Book of Birds." Later, the book sat on the bookshelf for seven years - until she was sorting out the old things before her wedding, she turned to the back of the yellowed card, and there was a line of his very faint words: "I saw light on your eyelashes today."
On New Year's Eve, 24 years old, 30,000 lights were lit simultaneously under Tokyo Tower. He was shooting time-lapse photography in the international student apartment, and she was in her office in the city across the sea. The arc of falling snowflakes in the lens and the raindrops on her window had exactly the same amplitude at a certain moment - this was the closest moment that neither of them knew.
At the age of thirty-two, during the rainy season, her daughter found a tin box in the attic. It contains 307 hand-drawn sunsets, each with latitude and longitude coordinates and temperature records on the back. The last one was dated in the spring seven years ago, and the mark read: "There is no sunset today. But the color of her eyes is the sum of all the dusk I have ever seen."
It turns out that there is some light that takes a lifetime of twilight to reach. And between them, even regrets are like four-leaf clovers sleeping in the dust of the library - complete, dry, never to be opened by anyone again.
