The window was still lit, the beams of light slanting through the sparse branches of the French sycamore, cascading and bursting, so bright and brilliant.

It was late at night. He lifted his head and looked at the window.

The light was on the opposite floor, the third floor, the fourth window from the east.

He stretched his sore arms, stood up, rinsed his face with cold water, and sat back down again.

She didn't sleep. I can't sleep either. He thought.

He was preparing for his homework, the bar exam. For a long time, that window had been a constant source of inspiration for him.

That day, it was early in the morning, and he saw her on the balcony. She was on crutches, watering flowers with a spray can. Another time, in the garden of the community, they met unexpectedly. She smiled at him. She had a nice smile. He didn't think she should be crippled. They talked about the lights of the night. She said that she was pursuing graduate studies in aesthetics. She said it felt good to have a purpose in life, to feel fulfilled. Her words, he thought, were brittle and catchy. Like the sound of her cane hitting the concrete pavement.

It was from that day that he began to prepare for his lawyer's homework. He hung up his guitar and never went to the streets or bars to sing "The Mouse Loves Rice" again.

Her light was like a clock, extremely accurate. At 6:30 in the morning, it was on; at 12:30 at night, it was off. On rainy nights with thunder and lightning, the light flashes in the fire. When the moonlight is like water, the light also becomes soft, lyrical, bubbling into the moonlight, into the quiet, quiet. Night fog, the light is like a huge egg yolk, floating in the mantle of fog. The light changed, magnificent and magical.

His window was also lit, and the two lights kissed and intersected between the branches of the French sycamore.

One day, two days ...... time was flowing as silently as the lights.

He finally got into law school. For some reason, he wanted her to be the first person to share his happiness.

He knocked on her door.

The door opened. She was in. Just without her crutches. Was she completely well?

"Congratulations to me. And congratulations to you, too, on your healed leg."

She smiled sadly.

"I'm her sister. My sister passed away two months ago. She had bone cancer."

He was terrified.

Lights?

My sister said, "You must have bright lights. Those were the last words my sister instructed me.

The window was still lit, the beams of light slanting through the sparse branches of the French sycamore, cascading and bursting, so bright and brilliant.

It was late at night. He lifted his head and looked at the window.

The light was on the opposite floor, the third floor, the fourth window from the east.

He stretched his sore arms, stood up, rinsed his face with cold water, and sat back down again.

She didn't sleep. I can't sleep either. He thought.

He was preparing for his homework, the bar exam. For a long time, that window had been a constant source of inspiration for him.

That day, it was early in the morning, and he saw her on the balcony. She was on crutches, watering flowers with a spray can. Another time, in the garden of the community, they met unexpectedly. She smiled at him. She had a nice smile. He didn't think she should be crippled. They talked about the lights of the night. She said that she was pursuing graduate studies in aesthetics. She said it felt good to have a purpose in life, to feel fulfilled. Her words, he thought, were brittle and catchy. Like the sound of her cane hitting the concrete pavement.

It was from that day that he began to prepare for his lawyer's homework. He hung up his guitar and never went to the streets or bars to sing "The Mouse Loves Rice" again.

Her light was like a clock, extremely accurate. At 6:30 in the morning, it was on; at 12:30 at night, it was off. On rainy nights with thunder and lightning, the light flashes in the fire. When the moonlight is like water, the light also becomes soft, lyrical, bubbling into the moonlight, into the quiet, quiet. Night fog, the light is like a huge egg yolk, floating in the mantle of fog. The light changed, magnificent and magical.

His window was also lit, and the two lights kissed and intersected between the branches of the French sycamore.

One day, two days ...... time was flowing as silently as the lights.

He finally got into law school. For some reason, he wanted her to be the first person to share his happiness.

He knocked on her door.

The door opened. She was in. Just without her crutches. Was she completely well?

"Congratulations to me. And congratulations to you, too, on your healed leg."

She smiled sadly.

"I'm her sister. My sister passed away two months ago. She had bone cancer."

He was terrified.

Lights?

My sister said, "You must have bright lights. Those were the last words my sister instructed me.