Cracked chestnuts are being stir-fried in the pot, the sweet potatoes are roasted in the iron stove and the fragrance is full of aroma. There are piles of fresh and juicy oranges in the grocery store. Booksellers are quietly closing their stalls under the dim street lights. The weather is so comfortable that you can stomp your feet. Unconsciously, it has entered the seventh year of autumn. I really wish that when we look up, we are still seventeen or eighteen-year-old boys across the street.
Intention: To be continued.