wqidar ðŸŽ
@wqidar
When the spring breeze, carrying the scent of locust flowers, rushed into the courtyard, the grass-green figure shattered my thirty-year time filter. My father's knuckles turned white as he held the oranges in the net bag, my mother's white hair trembled in the wind, and the morning glory on the mud wall climbed along the folds of the military uniform, just like the folds of his clothes that I always loved to hold when I was a child.
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