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Standing by the window sill, I watched the wind outside shake the neatly trimmed trees back and forth, producing a rustling sound. I closed my eyes, letting the autumn wind blow across my face freely; it felt as though I were by the sea, and I could almost hear the waves crashing in, rushing towards me like horses in full gallop. This early autumn was far from sparing its autumn winds. The morning breeze in early autumn is cool, dispelling the scorching heat of summer; dressed in light summer clothes, I seem somewhat unable to withstand the chill of autumn. The clusters of white clouds in the sky are like stray puppies wandering blindly. It seems it is also wandering, lost. On quiet nights, all that can be heard is the howling wind, which blows against my frail body and stirs up my mild sorrow; yet it cannot dispel those traces of longing and that sense of sadness. Looking at the few scattered autumn leaves only adds to my sorrow. It is said that every autumn leaf has its own story, which then drifts away into infinity and eternity. I remember, that autumn, you asked me to meet under the sycamore tree. I don’t know if I arrived too early or you came too late; I was there alone, standing under the plane tree whose branches cast dappled shadows. Perhaps the taste of waiting is truly unbearable, so I picked up a fallen plane leaf, brushed away the dust from it, and could clearly see the distinct veins on the leaf – just like the lines on the palm of your hand. Looking up, I saw you running over from afar, out of breath, apologizing to me. I didn’t say anything, seemingly waiting for your verdict. Actually, I had already heard from a classmate that you were going to a distant city; at that time I didn’t know the distance between cities, so I could only describe it as distant. You say that I am your best friend and want to say goodbye to me. At that moment, I really wanted to tell you that I like you. I trembled my lips, never having the courage to speak. I’m afraid I might not even be able to keep my position as my best friend. Later, the contact gradually faded until it was lost entirely. Those pale years of youth are like worn-out white shirts; as time passes, only yellowed memories remain. Looking back now, perhaps there is no end without a beginning. I remember those lines from *Murong’s “Farewell”*: Not all dreams can be made come true, and not all words can be spoken to you. Sitting alone by the window, the moonlight streamed in through it, gently falling on the book in my hands. I gazed at the night sky, but had no interest in reading. So I put down the book and quietly watched the lonely night. The autumn wind blew gusts by, playfully lifting the books I had placed aside and flipping through their pages rapidly. Suddenly it stopped, and after a while it started flipping through them again at high speed, repeating this pattern over and over. This reminded me of the poem \"The gentle breeze doesn’t know how to read; why then does it flip through the books chaotically?\", and I couldn’t help but laugh. If the autumn wind could read, perhaps it would understand why I am sad; then, with understanding, it would gently touch my head, bend down to kiss my cheeks, and whisper in my ear, comforting me by saying, “I’ve always been here.” ”Or, like a close friend, stay by my side, keeping quiet as I share my thoughts and feelings, and wiping away the tears from my eyes. If the autumn wind could read, perhaps it would understand how much longing is contained in those simple sheets of paper. Or, to comfort me, it would say, “The sea’s dreams are endless; you’re sad, and so am I.” Please recite to me the lines: “The south wind understands my feelings; it blows my dreams to Xizhou.” Then, it used its soft body to smooth out my furrowed brows. After sitting for a long time, I got up and went for a walk. Under the dim yellow light, my shadow was stretched long, making me appear even more frail, indifferent, desolate, and melancholic. The moonlight wanders across the night sky, lonely like a ship lost at sea with no place to anchor. It would be wonderful if the autumn wind could read. In this gloomy season, we need not accompany each other in sorrow or indulge in self-pity. There’s no need to drink alone to drown one’s sorrows. A breath of autumn wind takes away a bit of sorrow. A sliver of moonlight soothes all the longing in the world. It would be wonderful if the autumn wind could read.