I counted the sycamore leaves on the bench and put my phone back into my pocket for the seventh time. Dusk was flowing along the wrought iron railing, diluting the four o'clock daylight into translucent honey. When those running shadows in school uniforms pass across the lawn, it always gives me a certain illusion - as if familiar footsteps will stop behind me in the next second, saying with a breathy laugh: "Those who count leaves are the easiest to be caught up with time."
The cart selling marshmallows ran over the stone road, taking away the last few wisps of sweetness. The shadow of the tree moved half an inch on the edge of the bench, and I suddenly noticed that the shadow had become lighter. Normally at this time, we would get up and walk to the wooden plank road by the lake, watching how the street lights weave the shadows of two people into double knots.
The ginkgo leaf specimen in my pocket suddenly became hot. Last week, when he was squatting under a tree picking up fallen leaves, the back of his suit was stained with moss. "When autumn really comes..." His words were still hanging on the branches, which were being shaken by the evening wind. When I counted to the ninth leaf, I finally understood that the person who is used to leaning his umbrella towards others and always walking half a step faster may have turned waiting into going first.
When I stood up, my clothes swept away all the sycamore leaves, and the dusk suddenly became light. In the halo of the streetlights ahead, someone's shadow is being elongated into ink, spreading a faint pine smoke on the stone road.
Intention: Romance