The rainy season in the south is always lingering, and the patter of rain weaves into a dense network, wrapping the entire town in moisture. She stood under the eaves at the entrance of the old alley, her fingertips unconsciously rubbing the moss in the cracks in the wall. In the past, every rainy day like this, he would always hand her his black umbrella, but he would run home in the rain. But since he left, countless rainy seasons have come in turn, and the stone road at the alley has been washed more and more slippery by the rain. She has changed into several pairs of rain boots, but the familiar umbrella has never returned. Sometimes when the rain fell heavily, she would vaguely hear the sound of familiar footsteps. She would look up suddenly and see only hurried passers-by and unfamiliar umbrellas passing by. It turns out that some waiting will continue year after year with the rainy season, but she can no longer wait for the person who gave her an umbrella but went home in the rain.
Intention: Some farewells are not the end, but the thoughts that will be written for the rest of my life.
