When the chirping of cicadas shattered the glass window in September, Lin An bumped into the transfer student who was full of puzzles.
Chen Chi—the name is engraved on the school sign like an unsolved formula. There are old white scars hidden under the halo of being number one in the district, and the perfect answer area of the math test paper is stained with cinnabar-colored ink. He would feed the sparrows with rice pellets on the rooftop, but he would look like a wolf in front of the gangster's switchblade.
Lin An held the blood-stained band-aid and pieced together his secrets in the sketchbook: the rusty smell of cinnabar ink in the pen, the glimmer of the clavicle jade pendant, and the star track coordinates that appeared on the roof of the teaching building late at night.
Youth is a precise but easy-to-rust calculation. Top students and observers exchange answers in the midsummer with the roar of cicadas. When the pen rolls down under the wisteria flower stand, and when the anatomy of wings appears on the back of the competition question, those scars will eventually bloom into deep crimson flowers in the developer on the night when the meteor shower falls.
Intention: Study hard