In mid-autumn, the wind drifted gently from afar, carrying the crispness unique to this season—not as gentle as early autumn, nor tainted with the desolate chill of late autumn, yet precisely plucking the most delicate and sensitive strings of longing deep within the human heart. Zhao Xintian's figure appeared exceptionally desolate by the riverside, walking alone with heavy, sluggish steps as if treading upon the thorns where the past and reality intertwined, filled with an indescribable ache.
On both banks of the river, the once lush trees had quietly shed their summer attire. Their leaves, as if touched by the brush of passing years, were half stubbornly clinging to emerald green and half helplessly turning yellow. Under the gentle yet irresistible caress of the autumn wind, they emitted a low, rustling sigh, as if affectionately reminiscing about the gradually receding vitality or lamenting the transience of time and the caprice of fate.
Dappled sunlight pierced through the interlaced gaps of the branches and leaves, scattering like golden threads across the river's surface. As it swayed leisurely with the rippling waves, it flickered with dreamy, shimmering light and shadow—seemingly beautiful, yet exuding a nameless chill and loneliness.
Chapter 250