Intro:In the golden autumn sun, Shuilie sat waiting for Fugare to come pick her up.
   "black coffee not bitter"
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    Autumn gently arrives, like a traveler softly gliding across the land and sky, leaving behind a silent breath, a touch of poetic nostalgia in the air. The breeze blows softly, tenderly caressing each yellowing leaf, causing them to fall like dancers twirling in their final dance of time.

    Under the old house's porch, a figure sits in deep thought beside a cup of coffee, its smoke rising like morning mist resting on his silver-white hair. His hair, like the cool moonlight in the autumn night, is tousled by a playful breeze, some strands drifting over his face. His eyes, the color of a distant lake, are half-closed, as if immersed in a dream, or perhaps just a fleeting trace of sadness, like the autumn clouds fading away.

     The coffee in his hand is not just a drink; it feels as though it holds his soul, the dreams and memories he preserves in every sip. Bitter on the tongue, sweet in the aftertaste, and fragrant in the present moment—all of it encapsulates autumn in those delicate hands.

    In the distance, the trees stand still like statues of time. Each falling leaf carries a story, an unspoken sorrow. Sunlight filters through the gaps in the leaves, casting pale golden rays on the earth, like a fragile silk carpet, inviting the traveler’s steps, but no one dares disturb the silence.

    The wind continues to blow, like an instrumental song, bringing a peaceful serenity to her soul. Autumn doesn’t need words; just by gazing into his eyes, as clear as a river, his hair waving gently in the soft sunlight, one understands it all. Autumn is like that—gentle, mysterious, and heartbreakingly beautiful.

     Autumn, tender, carries the breath of the earth and sky in the soft breeze. Beneath the old porch, that figure sits quietly, with hair as white as the moonlight blending into the faint sunlight. His deep green eyes are half-closed, resembling the still surface of a lake, reflecting the sky's hues, both sleepy and carrying a sense of waiting.

    In his hand, the cup of coffee emits a fragrant steam, rising like endless, meandering thoughts. He takes a sip, the bitter-sweet taste spreads, as if time itself halts, leaving only the echo of waiting in the air.

    Around him, the yellow leaves continue to fall, each one like an autumn hourglass, reminding that time waits for no one. But that figure waits—a silent, graceful, and heartfelt waiting.

   In his mind, the image of another person appears vaguely, like the coffee smoke slowly fading into the air. Perhaps that person is on their way, through streets tinged with autumn hues, hurried yet still elegant. A playful gust of wind lifts a few strands of hair, causing him to smile—a slow smile, yet filled with fragile hope.

   The wind blows, the leaves fall, and the coffee slowly empties. Yet, that figure remains seated, letting his heart merge with the cool autumn air, letting memories and the present blend together, and waiting... just waiting for a figure to arrive, to break this poetic stillness. And in that moment, autumn will no longer be a season of solitude, but a season of reunion, where gentle green eyes meet the long-awaited gaze.

  As the last sip of coffee fades, that figure has finally arrived.

“You're late, silly Fugare.”
_
    " if my grammar is wrong, my English is terrible"