In early winter, the campus river was covered with thin ice, and the drooping arc of the willow branches looked like someone had pressed the pause button. Lin Yangshao squatted on the stone steps and poked the ice with his fingertips. The reflected willow shadow instantly shattered into millions of pieces.
Lin Yangshao took out the postcard from his school uniform pocket. On the back was an unfinished poem: "If you cross into my river, please pick up the 37th willow leaf - it is the spring that I have not spoken about."
Under the thin ice, Liu Boqing's shadow hung upside down at the bottom of the water, with a few strands of dead willow branches tangled at the ends of his hair. At this time, a group of yellow croakers swam by and swept away the mud with their tail fins, revealing the words engraved below: "I picked up the 37th dead willow leaf. It was hot in the palm of my hand, heading towards spring."
The wind blew across the river, causing the willow branches to tremble slightly, just like the "Hello" they said across time and space when they first met.
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