On a snowy night when I was six years old, my mother took my brother by the hand and carried me to the hospital to see a doctor. I only remember the sound of her breathing.
In the fall when I was sixteen, I met a man. He didn't talk much, but he wrote down his ideas for solving math problems on a piece of paper and pushed it to me, with a crooked cheering expression at the end.
In the next three years, we brushed countless papers together and walked through countless nights after self-study under the same street lamp.
After the college entrance examination, we went to different cities.
But every year when the spring breeze blows, he will send a message: The wind is blowing again.
I knew what he was saying, and I thought about that year again.
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Purpose: to record the beautiful encounters and farewells in the years of youth, and to treasure the purest emotions on the road to growth.