On Hengshan Road in early autumn, wide sycamore leaves fall scattered on the street, some of which are yellow and hunched over, making a crisp sound when stepping on them, but no matter whether they are yellow or green, the moment they fall from a high place means that their short cycle of reincarnation has ended.The sycamore trees on both sides of the road seemed to be a middle-aged uncle who had begun to bald. They were no longer as thick as the summer sun. The cloudy weather for several consecutive days made the power of the sun much less powerful. A shy light cast a sparse light and shadow on the ground and then quickly disappeared, and my mood was as gloomy as the weather.