There is a rusty bell lying in an iron box in the attic. When it rings, it always carries the sweet smell of July rainstorms. For the seventh time, she dreamed of the sycamore tree at the entrance of the alley. The boy in black school uniform leaned against the tree trunk and chuckled. His fingertips brushed the corners of her red eyes: "Guess, will I die first, or will our secret rot first?" The alarm clock went off at this moment, and there was a bloody sycamore leaf beside her pillow.
Intention: For a moment I want to go back to high school