It seems like every story has an ending, whether it's good or bad. This story seems like it happened yesterday, and it seems like many years have passed.
When the story just started, no one thought it would end. This is a clichéd story that cannot be clichéd. The people in the story are all in their prime years of youth and have their own little thoughts. But I only remember that autumn, when the wind was light and the clouds were clear, everything seemed possible.
Life is only a few autumns, we meet each other in autumn, and we know each other in autumn. A few autumns, a period of love.