That year, the breeze blew gently and the wicker swayed.
She watched him standing at the entrance of the stairs, looking intently at the French book in his hand.
The golden sunlight shines on his white shirt.
A picturesque boy.
Eight years later, he held her hand and walked through the willow trees at his alma mater, which was once full of memories.
The shadows of the trees cast slightly on them, mixed with the faint scent of osmanthus.
The breeze blew gently, raising a few strands of black hair on her forehead.
He gently opened her hair that was blown up by the wind, and looked at her with his scorching eyes.
"Even if the wind blows the dust from my world, I won't let it mess up your hair."
Eight years can change a lot of things, such as a city, an old tree, and a person.
And the heart that once surged with passion is still surging, because the person she loves has been waiting for her where she is.
No matter where you go, I'm waiting for you to come home.