Wedge

In late autumn, the afterglow of the sunset gradually lengthen the thin figures of mother and son.

On both sides of the road, the beautiful "British" sycamore leaves were blown by a breeze and fell all over the ground.

Is the withering of the leaves the pursuit of the wind, or will the trees no longer be retained?

In other words, this is an agreement that only the leaves and trees know.

The ancient castle in the distance is getting farther and farther away.

The mother took her son's little hand and walked on the street full of fallen leaves.

Every step, the leaves under your feet will make a sound.

The little boy let go of his mother's hand, and his little eyebrows were locked together.

He looked down at his feet and said, "Mom, I hate this place. I hate the people here. I hate this place."

The mother turned around, squatted in front of the little boy, stroked the little boy's soft hair, and took him into her arms. "Good boy, don't resent, don't resent anyone. When you grow up, you will understand that although they have done too much, they are not wrong. We don't belong here in the first place."

The little boy raised his head stubbornly and looked back at the towering castle in the distance.

He swore that one day he would come back, and he would come back here justly, and he would destroy it with his own hands.

The seeds of hatred slowly took root and sprouted in his young heart.

He will not forget today, and he will not forget the ugly face when the man kicked them out.

He swore that he would come back here, he swore...