Those perfect summers in the pleats. The endless weeds, the camphor trees with lush branches and leaves, and the blue and clear sky. Summer is the refreshing empty short-sleeved shirt and neat short hair, the contrasting green turf of the plastic track on the playground, the deep dreams lying on the table during free time in class, and the zipper of the schoolbag left open after the bell. It's the hearty feeling mixed with the taste of cola, and the sweet and crisp feeling when you drop a coin on the bus. The slow summer is a bright and clear season. It was also summer that came to an abrupt end. The memory is of the sultry rainy weather, the dead whiteness on his father's chest, the slightest chill he felt when he was close to the ice coffin, the cry after his sister hugged him, and the tears shed alone by showing off one's strength. At the end, Tang Yishui swallowed the sweet taste that was about to pour out of his throat, turned around and mouthed silently: "Miss me." Only he saw these three words. It was the poisonous needle that finally stabbed him with my own hands. And I can only turn around and walk towards the night that cannot welcome the dawn. Since then, time has returned. Summer is the ivy climbing up the wall of the yard at home, the cold air whistling out of the joyful air conditioner, the soft and coquettish sound of my sister playing in the evening, Sanhua sleeping soundly on her legs, and the smell of scented oil smoke coming from the kitchen. When he chuckled and called me "Linghe".