It took her sixteen years, from the age of twelve to the age of twenty-eight.
The locust tree at the entrance of the alley remembers everything. The first strawberry-flavored lollipop he handed me, the three years he held his clothes on the back seat of his bicycle, the words "let's be together" under the locust tree, and the silver chain on his ankle that he said "you can't run away if you put it on."
Then he met someone else. Later, one of the two cups of coffee she made every morning was no longer drunk. Later she took off the anklet, put it on again, and took it off again.
After she fell ill, she began to write in her diary: How is the weather today? The pomegranate tree bloomed a few flowers, and the cat across the door climbed over the wall again. She stopped writing about him. There is only one line on the last page: The coffee he made yesterday was just right.
She was walking in the early morning when the locust trees were in full bloom. She was neatly dressed, her hair braided, and her face looked like she could finally sit down after walking a long way.
He later sat under the locust tree for fifty years. Bring a cup of Americano every day, no sugar or milk.
Sophora japonica flowers bloom every year. He's there every year.
But the morning she was waiting for would never come.
