That autumn at the flea 《Market》, you handed me a 《Glass Butterfly》 trapped in amber—"Like us," you said,"《Drift》ing between 《Seasons》." We strung 《Lanterns of Love》 along the canal, their glow trembling in 《Rainfall》 as 《Four Seasons》 waltzed through our shared umbrella.Your letters smelled of 《Autumn》's first roast chestnuts, each sentence a 《Lantern》 swaying in 《The Silence》. When 《The Heartfall》 came with December frost, I found our photo buried under maple leaves—your smile still warm in 《Reflections》 of steaming tea.Now I plant tulips where our 《Lantern》 shadows kissed. Spring whispers a secret: even withered petals hold roots deep enough to resurrect 《Seasons》.