The cicada chirping that summer had not yet ended. She was standing at the alleyway holding the folder. She was leaning against the mottled wall through her white shirt, with tiny rays of sunlight falling on her eyelashes. Later, they wrote letters across mountains and seas, with stamps covering postmarks from different cities. The blank space between the lines was more turbulent than the words. When the wind of reunion lifts the curtains, they realize that some bonds have never been broken from the beginning, just like the light and shadow in old photos, which become wine over time and become mellower with time.
Intention: cool