The Warm Wind Knows What I Want, I Read Your Name Every Year

In September in Nancheng, there is always a faint fragrance of osmanthus. The wind blew through the tops of the ginkgo trees, gently swaying the young man's thoughts. Many years later, Su Wan still remembered the afternoon when her suitcase was knocked over. The sun was just right, and the young man crouched down and brushed his fingertips over her collection of poems scattered on the floor. He didn't say much and just picked up a forgotten bookmark. That was the beginning of their story, and it was also a love that lasted eight years, going round and round, but never separated after all.