Over the years, the thick layers of fallen leaves had painted a blend of green and orange color on the avenue. The dead leaves were like a group of musician, singing a symphony of soothing tone for those stepping on them.
Accompanied by the cacophony of crackling leaves, Lin Sanjiu stopped moving forward as she felt a twinge of confusion.
An eddy of wind blew past her, picking up a few leaves and carrying them to her front. The sepia leaves whirled in the blue sky for a moment before falling on the bridge not far away.
Everything was so quiet, and there was no sight of either that old lady or Qing Jiuliu.
There was a river at the end of the street. The London plane trees were thinning toward the end of the road and there were lesser fallen leaves on the ground. Hence, it had become harder for Lin Sanjiu to keep track of them.
