That year, fate was like a rainstorm without warning, splitting her stable life in half. Her father's car accident was like a bolt from the blue. She stopped school, and she turned around and walked into the pale ward.
For more than a year, she worked in the hospital, learned to turn over and scrub her father, and learned to be silent in front of the bills late at night. The day her father finally stood up, she cried like a child, crying all the grievances she had suffered throughout the year.
When I stepped into the campus again, the sycamore leaves were glowing golden. The classroom is still the same classroom, but there are unfamiliar faces sitting in the seats.
The first time I saw him was at the end of the hospital corridor. She was gritting her teeth and moving her father into the wheelchair. Her arms were as thin as reeds, trembling slightly, and her collar was soaked with sweat. Opposite the ward stood a young man, tall and tall, with calm eyes. She hurried past him in a wheelchair, the wind blowing up her hair and bringing with it a burst of clean soap fragrance, covering up the pungent disinfectant smell inch by inch. She didn't raise her head, so naturally she didn't see his slightly curled fingers - she was hesitating whether to reach out to help.
The door closed and the corridor fell silent. He stood there, his Adam's apple rolled, and something in his heart silently occupied a corner.
