I don't know when I started, but I got into the habit of looking at the sky in the self-study class. In every busy day, I count the youthful years and feel all the innocence I have never forgotten.

In my memory, the boy riding a bicycle fell down, got up and cried with a smile, and the stubborn lines on his side face instantly melted into the liquid sunset. The typhoon wrapped in a strong airflow roared and swallowed the reeds behind him. And the lonely silhouette of the skirt swaying on the swing frame. Pink flowers flourish on the side of the hair, and the passing wind leaves a burning illusion on the lips. These are the best times in my memory.

Sitting on the playground, I smell the oncoming wind, the rich grass fragrance in the wind, the gorgeous morning sun, mixed with the smell of newly turned earth, and think of the girl holding my hand running beside the green grass and the white fence, with a sweet smile on her lips, as light as a butterfly flapping its wings. When the memory of youth disappeared on the way, I realized that no one can be with anyone forever.