It's the end of summer, and in a blink of an eye, another late autumn is coming.
In the season of falling leaves, it is also under the tree and beside the swing, but at this moment, his shadow is no longer around.
The cool breeze blew by, sweeping away the dead leaves that had not yet fallen to the ground.
It seems to me that what is yet to come and accept the ending has long been settled, and the years have hurriedly washed away the only memories I have left.