Bookmarks of Time

 　　Not far from home, there's a small river covered in lush grass.

　　In my childhood, I loved to read by its banks. In the early morning, the mist would bathe the river in a dreamlike glow. I would be bathed in the morning light, splashing through the water, finding a small stone to sit on. Holding a book, I would be completely content. When I grew tired, I would lie down, watching the pale blue morning mist gently kiss the river, listening to the soft, mysterious whispers of nature. I would close my eyes, take a deep breath, and the fragrance of rice, flowers, and the fresh scent of earth would permeate my very being. A gentle breeze would pass by, and a few petals would drift down onto my warm cheek, too delicate to brush away.
　　Suddenly, a boy's figure would come into my view.
　　He always seemed to happen to be there when I was reading. The occasional startled birdsong would tell me he was coming. His footsteps would grow closer, striking a chord in my heart. Strangely, my heart would race whenever he arrived. When I was reading, he was reading me too. Gradually, I couldn't concentrate on my books. Sometimes, a hazy figure would inexplicably appear in my dreams. It was him.
　　That year, I was 15.
　　Later, we became classmates. By chance, we became deskmates.
　　He was tall and thin, with a pair of large eyes shining behind bright glasses. He had a very scholarly air about him. But he was extremely athletic, excelling in running, jumping, throwing, and lifting. On the field, he was the focus of attention, the topic of conversation, and the idol of his classmates.
　　I was naturally introverted and afraid of boys' gazes. When he spoke to me, he would habitually stare at me intently. And I would always shyly avoid his eyes. My heart would race, and my face would turn red. Whenever this happened, he would always make a perfectly timed joke, making me feel both excited and relaxed.
　　He also loved reading. When he had free time, he liked to talk to me about classics. So, books became the medium of our communication.
　　We often exchanged books.
　　One day, he borrowed my copy of "Eugénie Grandet". As I returned the book, whether intentionally or unintentionally, he touched my finger. My face instantly burned from the unexpected touch, and a strange sensation rushed through my body. I recoiled as if electrocuted. I glanced up at him; he was gazing at me radiantly, his long eyelashes beaming with smiles. My heart pounded.
　　I hurriedly gathered the book and fled home.
　　I opened my bag and flipped through the book. A leaf fluttered out like a butterfly from within. I carefully picked it up in my palm.
　　It was a large poplar leaf, heart-shaped. The veins were clear, and the green was still vibrant. A faint fragrance wafted from it. In the center of the leaf were four lines of poetry: "Spring forest flowers are charming, spring birds are sorrowful. Spring breeze is also affectionate, blowing open my silk robe."
　　Weren't these the first four lines of "The Four Seasons Song of Midnight"? In a hazy vision, I seemed to sense the spring breeze blowing, the spring forest lush, the spring birds singing mournfully, and a lonely poet wandering along the fragrant path.
　　Could the one who gave me this green leaf be that amorous poet?
　　I carefully placed it in my diary. Perhaps, as time flows by, it will become an indelible bookmark, carrying rainbow-like dreams.
　　We are no longer strangers. In our leisure time, we chat about everything under the sun, but when he looks at me, I still blush.
　　He has become a scene in my dreams. Vague, yet intimate.
　　A seed called longing has been planted in my heart.
　　That year, I was 17.
　　After graduating from junior high school, he moved to Northeast China with his family. We never saw each other again.
　　Now, the leaf is withered and wrinkled, with several cracks, the writing very faint, so faint that it needs careful reading. The fragrance of the leaf is gone. Yet, I still carefully treasure it in my diary, in a corner of my heart, in my once beautiful dreams.
　　I gaze at it, letting my heart feel intoxicated, returning to the pure days of my girlhood.
　　That long-lost, clear, cool stream; that intoxicating fragrance of nature; that sentimental poet strolling along the path, softly reciting: "
　　Spring forest flowers are so charming,
　　spring birds so sorrowful.
　　The spring breeze, so affectionate,
　　blows open my silken robe.