When he was fifteen years old, he stuffed orange-flavored candy into my palm and said, "Don't let mom see it."
Later, I learned to unwrap the candy wrappers myself, but no one would compete with me to eat them anymore.
Five years have passed, and I have become accustomed to the days when he is not around, to the cold hands that suddenly reach into my collar in winter, to coming home from school, and to never hearing the phrase "little one" again.
I thought I had long since become numb and put it down. It wasn't until I was sorting out old things that I found out the candy wrapper pressed in the iron box. It was wrinkled and still smelled of sweet oranges, and I discovered that there were some shelf-life dates that had been secretly written in time.
I grew up well with the candy wrappers he gave me, and finally learned to hide him in the sweetness of orange candies, in the wind, and let go of my heart gently every time I think of him.
Intention: I grew up like him, but I never had the orange candy from that year again. It turns out that his farewell has never expired, he just changed his way to accompany me moving forward.